Cage
by Number One Fan of Journey
Summary: I don't how long I've been trapped here. I don't know how I'm going to keep holding out against all of the tortures. But I know I'm going to get out. Somehow. *Rated M for incidents of graphic torture only *On temporary hiatus due to life
1. Part I (Fear): Slice

This time it's my arm.

I don't even know what they're trying to research anymore. Maybe they're not researching anything. I wouldn't be surprised if they're just torturing me.

The lack of anaesthetic certainly wouldn't contradict that. I don't know whether they want me awake or have enough bills to pay without worrying about my pain. I guess a few steel restraints on the operating table are cheaper than dose after dose of knockout gas. They get to be used multiple times, too. Thrifty.

The left wrist cuff is open today, though. With everything else strapped over me, there's not much worry of escape. I'm not exactly about to punch them out, either. That would require all of my muscles to be intact.

For all I can tell, they could be, but that's no good if they're not connected to everything they're supposed to be. And I know—if nothing else—they aren't. I've already caught glances of severed tendons, as well as slick metal instruments turning over flaps of muscle. I don't care to keep up with today's happenings at any more length.

A sharp bite near my elbow sends spurts of fire jumping down to my hand. A scream bubbles at the bottom of my throat, but I don't let it any farther than that. If these guys get any pleasure from hearing my anguish, I'm all too happy to keep that from them as long as I can. I'm too strong to just faint; surely I'm strong enough to stay silent.

I can say that in regard to more than screaming. I'm not sure when I last spoke to them. They'll try to chat from time to time, smiling like an old friend as they watch some part of me they mutilated try to regenerate, but I give them nothing. They'll ask if I want a drink, maybe a walk outside. Nothing. It wouldn't make a difference, anyway. They won't let me out until they're done with me, and I doubt that's going to happen any time soon.

How long has it been already? With no paper or scratch-friendly surfaces at hand, I've lost count. I never see daylight, and I spend so much time either dead or disoriented from pain I couldn't tell you if it's morning or evening right now. The scientists—no, they don't deserve to be called that—_enemies_ are about at all hours, so I can't tell the time from their routines, either.

A guard or two is always near as well. Whoever is running this still thinks that, after all of the torture, all of the attempts ending in my death, and all of the strength sapped from me, I could still somehow make it out to freedom. Then again, I believe that. How could I not? The others obviously can't find me too easily, but I'm sure I can make it out by myself. If I can't, fighting this hard is useless.

The tang of blood hits my tongue as some careless sweep of the hand scrapes metal against bone. The sound alone is enough to make my eyes shut tighter. If I'm not careful, I'll bite my tongue in two. I have enough damage to deal with already.

Even now, not everything has healed. It may take no more than a day to regenerate after being blown to bits, but functioning ins't the same as well. Slightly less destructive things, like what they're doing now, can leave scars inside and out for days, weeks even. I knew that long before all of this. It's painful, sure, but nothing new.

What worries me is that square, just at the bottom edge of my vision. It's only one little patch, on my shoulder where it meets my chest, but the skin still hasn't grown back there. Everything else in that area is fine, but that little square where I can see the pink gleam of muscle... It's unsettling, to say the least.

Of course, not much in here can be considered comfortable. Whenever they're not intentionally starving me, I get a decent amount of food. Nothing of high quality—definitely no beer. That's about it.

For some delirious reason, I look over at my left arm. What remains of it. They're still working on the forearm, but the biceps and triceps are gone. Barely veiled, the humerus peeks from beneath a web of blood vessels and thin, overwhelmed nerves. Wonder how they haven't cut any arteries yet. Or maybe they have; they've just covered their tracks. I _am_ feeling a little light-headed...

Controlling my breathing, I look back at the ceiling, all dull metal and glaring lights. It's getting so much harder to stay silent. I'm not sure I'll make it through the rest of this—and if they start on my other arm, I'm done. Even when there's so much pain I can't tell one slice from another, it won't fade. It'll only build up until I pass out or die.

Maybe that wouldn't be so hard. My shoulder's still intact; if I jerk my arm towards me at just the right time, I could make them sever something vital.

But then what? I wouldn't be able to keep struggling long enough for them not to fix it. Even if it works, it wouldn't be the end of this. They'll just wait and try again later. I've already learned that lesson. So I'll just—

I scream. I'm not even sure what they just did, but this sudden spike from the background pain is too much. I try to force my mouth shut, but the strangled cries take a minute to lose volume.

After I feel the enemy's eyes on my face, I look. Curious, beady eyes straining to peer over a set of glasses with extra layers for magnification. A quiet snort of amusement before he turns back to his task.

Face burning, I look at the ceiling. I may not scream like a girl, but it's embarrassing nonetheless. Maybe the enemies aren't particularly aiming to torture me, but that's the plan I decided to thwart, and I failed. I could have been fighting the wrong battle, but that doesn't change the fact that the enemy is the victor.

But the fight's not over yet. So I grit my teeth and keep up the struggle.

* * *

A/N: Just an old idea that I suddenly felt like writing. Probably not my best so far due to writing conditions, but we'll see what happens. I'm not trying to be particularly medically accurate. No idea of the length (of even the individual chapters), but there's going to be more to the story than graphic injury.

Let me know what you think!


	2. Allow Me to Introduce Myself

I'm still secured to the operating table when five enemies enter the room the next day. To my surprise, they don't immediately strap down my regenerated wrist. They just gather at my left side like a group of schoolchildren at a hands-on museum exhibit. Clipboards and tablets out, they ogle my arm from what must be a safe distance. I don't have the energy to check.

They take notes, prod my new arm, check their watches. The slick cloth of a tape measurer winds around my upper arm before one of the men smiles in disbelief.

"No discernible difference." He slides the measurer to my forearm. "Amazing."

Is that right? Funny—when _I_ think someone is amazing, I don't usually proceed to tear them apart.

As the others take a few more notes, the impressed man steps to my better-restrained side and leans a bit closer to my face. His breath isn't pleasant.

"So your physique is as stable as any other part of your regeneration."

Why would you think otherwise? Haven't I come back the same way every other time you've reduced me to shreds? Or did those experiments have too many variables? Huh. You may be a terrible human being but at least you're thorough.

His thick eyelids blink. "Is it difficult for you to gain or lose weight?"

I've probably lost a decent amount of weight in this place, though it's hard to tell. Apparently not much of it came from muscle mass.

Registering my silence, he backs away enough that I can't smell the sour mint on his breath. I exhale in relief.

His shoes tap the floor as he returns to the group. A few of them exchange comments too quietly for me to hear. As pens scratch paper, I idly face my arm. My fingers wriggle when I tell them to, but not enough to arouse attention from the crowd. Good. Nothing feels amiss, aside from the expected soreness, so no reason to think anything's gone wrong. It's almost as if my arm wasn't thoroughly dissected yesterday.

That seems to be part of the justification for all of this. If I'll be as good as new a day later, does it really matter what happens to me over just a few hours? If they're making great leaps in biology, is it worth everything they're putting me through?

Suddenly air brushes across my ankles. The enemies have retreated, and now a guard is freeing me from some of the restraints. Knowing better thank to try starting a conversation at this point, she cuffs my left wrist to my bed and then leaves. I just go along quietly.

I don't have that much of a choice. I'm still not aware enough to overtake her; if I fail, she'll just shoot me down. If I can subdue her, I'll have to bust down the door or beg the outside guard to release me. If that somehow works, I have to sprint through the halls, find a staircase, and go somewhere over twenty flights up without being captured or shot. After that, I don't know. Never made it that far.

Someday I will. I hate to give up for a day, a week, maybe longer, but I do have some days better than others. I want to make my next break for it when I actually have a chance. With my head throbbing more than my arm, now is not the best time.

With a click and a hiss, the door slides shut. The female guard is gone, but for some reason one of her fellows has stepped inside.

I haven't seen him before, I don't think. He has the least bulk of the guards that have stood in my cell, though there's still some muscle mass to him. A slick gleam comes from his shoes, and his uniform is fresh off the ironing table. A gun and some other knickknacks adorn his belt just like the others;, but he's added a plain tie to his indigo shirt.

The crisp appearance ends there. His hair is a shiny but messy mop of near-black, and a somewhat woozy smile stretches across his face.

But none of that is the first thing that strikes me.

"England?" It's easy to tell my voice hasn't been used in a while. The screaming yesterday probably didn't help.

The man blinks, abnormally thick eyebrows rising. "Excuse me?"

American. His accent is standard American. He's definitely not America—and now that I look closer, he can't be England, either. Something about the shape of his nose, or maybe the rest of his face. No, he's no one I know.

Am I really so desperate to get out I'll cling to anything that seems like a rescue?

"Nothing," I Mutter, sitting on my bed and watching my left arm flex.

"Anyway," the guard starts slowly, rocking back on his heels, "I just wanted to drop in and say hello. I'm James. New here, but I've had all of the necessary training, so don't get any ideas." He leans back against the wall. "And you're Germany, yes?"

I don't even bother nodding.

James watches me for a minute before exhaling and looking at the ceiling.

"A whole nation, eh? What a concept." He ducks towards me, squinting. "You must have been through a lot. Do you have to fight in all of the wars? This place must be a walk in the park in comparison."

I wouldn't say that much. I at least have a decent mindset, but nothing could make constant experimentation—torture—seem easy.

James meets my gaze for a moment before leaning back. "Not much of a talker, are you?" He shrugs. "Ah, well. Maybe we can have a friendlier chat sometime you're feeling a little better. Until then!"

With a smile and a little salute, he turns, asks for the door, and steps out. The metal clunks shut behind him.

* * *

I guess there were two ways to design a follow-up experiment. Of course they wouldn't choose the one that would make me stronger.

As of this morning—or, at least, shortly after I last woke up—I was 1.4 kilos lighter than usual. Judging from the lack of meals today, they're trying to push me down further. I'm pretty sure they'll succeed. How much, after how long, I couldn't say. Honestly, I'm a little curious about it, too. Not enough to willingly starve myself, though.

Some of the things I've found out about my immortality recently really are intriguing. Nonlethal wounds heal according to some formula—I can't remember the numbers or powers now—so that, the larger the extent of damage, the faster the process occurs, Even minor scrapes go away about three times faster than they would on a human. At the same time, deeper damage doesn't start healing as quickly as a small scratch. I guess that's why I can still die. It probably has some useful purpose as well, and maybe I'll figure that out, too.

It's great to know these kinds of things without so much subjective guesswork, I'll admit that. But I'll take a little uncertainty over another dissection any day.

No sooner has the thought crossed my mind than the door slides open and shut, admitting a guard. James again. He has no food, and he's finger the key to my handcuffs. By now I know that means I'm going on the table. Why let me starve in peace when there are more experiments to be done?

"Afternoon," he starts, kneeling by the bedpost where I'm cuffed. "Ready for more fun today?"

I just watch him. If I'm going to escape before I really start starving, this is going to be my best chance, at my best strength. If I just get him down and threaten his life, I'm sure I can make him open the door. It's still uncertain past that point, but this guard is the weakest.

I stay slack as he opens up the cuff and turns it to the other side of the post, the scratch of metal grating my ears. He scrunches up the keys, and, once his right hand goes in his pocket, I strike.

My elbow slams down on the back of his head. His neck snaps downward, and I grab for his mouth before he can alert anyone. The keys clatter on the stone floor, and then his fist is in my stomach. I clench my fingers hard over his mouth, but he straightens up, pulling his arm back to grab my wrist. He tries to force me away, but I push back harder. Giving up on that, he lets go and punches my throat before I can get the gun. Spluttering, I focus on maintaining my grip and watch the holster from the corner of my eye. James pauses for a second, his furious look of focus totally out of place compared to his typical dumb smile.

My shoulder blades slam back against the cold wall. Trying to regain my footing—and figure out what just happened—I press my free arm back against the solid metal. My foot goes for his abdomen, but he knocks my other leg from beneath me. The wall only provides enough friction for my trip down to burn my back.

I'm pushing myself up before I realize both hands are free. James is gasping for breath and rubbing his face, but that doesn't stop him from dropping his boot square between my shoulders. While I'm able to keep myself from hitting the floor, he grabs the back of my head and slams my forehead on the ground. My vision skips out for a second, and suddenly his foot is much too heavy for me to keep my chest off the floor. The thin sheen of sweat isn't adequate protection from the searing cold surface.

Rubbery treads dig into my back as James shifts his weight further onto me.

"So," he starts, a happy note in his voice despite his panting, "do you haze all of the new guys, or am I just special?"

I just lie and listen to my breath rattling in my ears. By now I'm ready to get back up, but it would be useless. We've made enough noise for the other guards to be on the alert, and I'm sure James has recovered enough to shoot me before I can do much.

"Out of breath, or just being stubborn?" he starts, but he doesn't wait long for a response. "Anyway. Now you know I can handle an attack as well as anyone else." A scraping sound that must be from his holster. "But next time I'll just shoot if I get the chance."

His foot lifts off my back. "Would you like to go to the operating table nicely now?" The constant cheer in his voice is really starting to irritate me.

Finally regaining control of my breathing, I silently push myself up to my knees. James offers a hand—the one that's not pointing a gun at my head—but I just stare at him evenly as I stand up by myself. He raises his England-eyebrows but shrugs.

"My only job is to keep you where you're supposed to be. No point in being mean beyond that." He glances at a corner of the ceiling. "So, to the table, face up. I imagine they're checking out your left arm since I'm to leave it unrestrained."

He pops his fingers and watches me climb onto the table. It still smells of antiseptic and raw meat, and its surface is colder than the floor's. At least there's a thin, wrinkled cover to provide some insulation. Of course, that wouldn't be an issue if they gave me more clothing than one pair of boxers.

Although I'm not sure why they even spare that much. It's probably a safe bet to say they don't provide clothing for their lab rats. The enemies get to treat me a lot worse since they don't have to buy a new one. It's hardly an issue of decency since they've already repeatedly blown me to bits and watched me come back without any clothing. Just a whim, I guess. Though I can appreciate it no matter what they were thinking.

James straps the last restraint over my wrist before stepping back and clicking his tongue.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but the next experiment is—" he stows his gun and looks at his watch—"just about now. Toodle-oo!"

He turns, gets the door open, and leaves me tied down here. A few enemies and another guard enter.

I take a deep breath and try to relax while I can. As the table of sharp instruments clatters up next to my foot, I close my eyes and think of other things.

I wonder if James was serious about the comment on his job. If he understands what's going on here and is fine being a part of it, he can't be a nice guy. Still, if he's willing to chat, maybe I could get some useful information out of him. I already know it's afternoon. That's not much, but I'll take any little victory I can get.

After all, there are plenty of losses to suffer yet.


	3. Looking Up

I've finally lost a "significant" amount of muscle mass. About the same amount is gone from both arms, even if only my left has been having to constantly regenerate. The enemies found that quite interesting.

More importantly, I get to eat again. Not much at first, and rightfully so. I may still look to be in decent shape, but I barely feel fit enough to keep raising forkfuls to my mouth. I don't know what's coming next, and it could very well be worse, but at least I can start rebuilding my strength. It'll be a little while before I can start thinking of escape again, but maybe I can push away the fuzziness crowding my mind. In some way, it's hard to say which is worse, all of the bite and fire of my arm being sliced apart, or being so hungry and murky I can't even tell it's happening.

At any rate, I'm glad to eat again. I'm also spending a little more time with James. I was only conscious of him a few times during this past experiment, and only once did he say anything of interest. It was almost American Thanksgiving. That may not necessarily mean anything as far as my location, but I at least know it's near the end of November. But that also means I've _missed_ the _entirety_ of _Oktoberfest_...

Putting that aside—somehow—I've been here about four months. It feels so much longer.

My poor excuse for a mattress screeches as I lean forward to put my empty tray on the ground. The guard scoops in up and asks if I need to use the bathroom while he's here. I shake my head and lie down, listening to the door clank shut. This is one of those few times I actually wouldn't mind a good nap after lunch.

Speaking of which, I still haven't found out anything about the other nations. If Italy's been captured... It's hard enough for me to handle this, so him? I can't even imagine how he'd react after a while of experimentation. Hopefully they'd just get sick of him wailing and crying and release him.

I'm sure my brother could pull through it all or escape. Same with Japan. That's not to say I'm okay with any of them getting in the same situation. All I can wish for is that I'm the only one.

I don't know how easily I could find out for sure. There's at least some hope I could wheedle it out of James, though. I'll have to phrase things carefully if this is all as clandestine as it seems.

* * *

"Come on, you lackadaisy."

I'm too asleep to recognize the voice, but I'm betting it's James.

After a bit of shuffling off the covers, I turn on my side, cuff clanging against the bedpost. James is indeed there, squatting to meet my gaze.

"Good morning," he starts, resting his arms on his knees.

I stifle a yawn. "Morning."

He jumps, such a look of astonishment on his face I actually want to laugh.

"So he speaks!" he says with even more energy than usual.

"Yeah, yeah." I sit up. "So, what am I in for today?" Even this much talking is drying out my throat.

James rubs his hands together. "Exercise." He looks at my arms. "I feel safe in assuming you're no stranger to pushups."

I rotate my bound wrist. "I've done my share."

"Well, you're going to do more." With a laugh, he leans back against the wall. "See how fast you can build back up."

"I won't do as well if I have to keep regenerating my arm."

He nods for a second, visibly trying to register that we're actually having a conversation.

"And why's that?" he finally responds.

"Soreness." I rub the back of my arm. "Much worse than the kind from after a workout."

"Huh!" he says thoughtfully, scratching his chin. "I'll let them know. Maybe they'll want to be more efficient and not cut you up so much."

After I don't say anything for a minute, he sighs and gets back to his feet. "I guess—"

"Why would you do that?"

He stammers, blinking. "What, ask them to give you a break?"

"Yes." I clasp my fingers, looking at the untrimmed nails. "What difference would it make? If you sanction what they're doing to me, why would you care if something gives me a little more pain?"

He stares at me before bursting into chuckles. "It's complicated," he says, walking over to sit at the foot of my bed. When I don't meet his gaze, he opts to watch the grey ceiling.

"Let's just say..." He exhales, still smiling. "Let's just say I need these experiments to go on, but I don't have anything against you. If I can lend a hand without hurting the process, I will."

Chuckling, he shakes his head. "Not much of an explanation, but it's all I can say. Let's be amiable towards each other, all right, may—" he clears his throat—"man?"

He holds out a hand to shake, but I just sigh and stare at the wall. Laughing weakly, he drops his arm.

"Right. So, you get to your workout, and I'll check on that issue."

Looking at the ground, I cross my arms. "Get me some food, too."

He salutes. "I'll do my best."

With that, he leaves, and I shuffle onto my hands and feet for the first experiment that may not be all bad.


	4. Guards

"No dissections today?"

James drums his hands on his thighs. "No, just a check-up/weigh-in sort of thing."

"Works for me." I rest with arms extended before delving into my next set of fifty.

I'm by no means back to peak physical condition, but I already feel worlds better than last week. While a general fatigue never leaves me, my head's a lot clearer, and I don't feel like sleeping all of the time.

Of course, that wouldn't be an option anymore. Whichever guard is in here at the time has the license to beat, tase, or even shoot me if I don't exercise enough. Luckily I don't have much of a problem when it comes to slacking off. I've only been pounded and zapped as a warning.

"You said you're from Alabama?" I start after a minute of silence.

He nods, so after a second of panting I continue, "So, what, do these people have a recruiting program there?"

Brushing bangs out of his eyes, he laughs. "Oh, no. This lab is connections-only. Harder for me to get in than you, that's for sure."

"Harder for me to get out," I counter.

"Ha! True enough." Leaning against the wall, he crosses one ankle over the other. "Anything in particular you miss? Any family?"

If I weren't panting, my mouth would be sealed shut.

He crosses his arms and looks up. "_Could_ you have any siblings? I suppose they would have to be other nations. Ooh, let me guess. If you're Germany, maybe... Austria? France?"

"No," I finally respond. "Definitely not France."

James laughs so hard he almost falls over. "Not a big fan of him, I guess?" He pauses. "Or I suppose France could be a girl. Are there any girl nations? Any... _special_ girl nations?" He wriggles those eyebrows at me.

I just sigh and keep at the pushups. Thankfully James's communicator beeps before he can make any more comments on my love life.

"Yes? All right." He slides the black box back in his belt and stands. "Lunch time for you. Jerry'll bring it in and take the next shift, so I'll see you later."

"All right."

James lingers a moment, glances at a corner of the ceiling, then steps out the opening door. One of the other guards squeezes through the narrow opening a second later, food in his hands.

Apparently his name is Jerry, then. We didn't exactly introduce ourselves properly upon meeting, and if I've heard his name since, I didn't care to remember it. I've always just known him as the guard with the Australian accent.

Almost all of the guards have different accents. I haven't heard a lot of the enemies talk, but one is Irish, one has a French accent, and two have spoken to me in German. I doubt any of it has bearing on our location. For all I know, all of the accents are fake to throw me off.

In any case, I could get the location from James, I'm sure. Today's conversation took off in the wrong direction, but rerouting it to place would have been suspicious. I can wait. I'm not in condition to feel confident about escape right now.

And then, how useful would it really be to know? Wherever in the world we are, I'll have to run for some time before I can try to get help. It'd be nice to know what language to speak, but it wouldn't take long to figure out.

Really, I guess it would just be one of those little victories. I've been trying to keep track of the days, too, but I'm sure I'll lose that once this experiment is over. I could remember the location regardless, though. In this place, I need to cling to any scrap of certainty I can find.

I round out my set before sitting on the bed with a grunt. The guard has already left—patient guy—but the tray of food is on the ground near my feet. Shaking some sweat off my arms, I set the meal on my lap and start eating.

It's still nothing very appetizing, just some sort of bland mush that may be distantly related to potatoes and some sort of meat that is, by contrast, extremely hard to chew. They're both in ample amounts, though, and I have a decent helping of milk to clear them out of my mouth. Nothing I would ever have a craving for, but it's much better than starving.

I finish fairly quickly, but a guard has already returned. He looses my cuff when I gesture towards the bathroom corner, and I take care of things there. Just an old toilet, some paper, and a bottle of foaming sanitizer. At least it all works. I tried stopping up the plumbing once, to see if they'd take me to a bathroom closer to the exit, but that backfired. I have the feeling they intentionally took too long fixing it.

The guard cuffs me again and leaves. Since I'm apparently getting some time off and I'm pretty tired, I close my eyes for a moment.

After a minute of resting, the door slides open, letting a guard and a few enemies in. They take a few measurements and remove the handcuffs long enough for me to step on a scale. Not too bad, though I still have a ways to go if they want me above my normal weight.

After the enemies jot down everything they want, I'm secured to the bedpost and left alone with the guard.

"Get back to work," she says in German.

I oblige as well as I can.


	5. Brought to Injustice

After another week and a half of all-but-leisurely training, this experiment is over. Even though I'm not sure I'll be able to use my arms for a reasonable amount of exercise ever again, I still wish I could stay on this track, with some other muscle group. Now there's no telling what could be next, and I doubt I'll get any inkling of enjoyment from it.

One of the guards enters and looks me over. For a moment I hope he'll order me to do sit-ups. Instead he walks up to me and kneels at the bedpost, key out.

"Supposed to take you to the showers," he says over the toothpick on his mouth. With a shrug he adds, "The sweat and all."

I just watch as the cuff falls away from my wrist and clatters on the floor. Even when he seizes my elbow and jostles me to my feet, this doesn't seem right. What knowledge could they possibly gain from this? Maybe they could test my resistance to scalding water or something, but is this such a better way to do it that it's worth taking me out of my cage? This just doesn't seem consistent with the system here.

Is it because of James? He already managed to keep me from a few arm dissections. How would he convince the enemies to do this, though?

A cloth goes over my head, and the guard twists at the back enough to push my eyes back into my skull a bit. Once he's satisfied I can see only black, he has the door opened, puts a gun at my back, and leads me out. I have to turn sideways to squeeze through.

From there I start counting. Four steps forward, turn left. Sixteen steps, go through door. Straight for twenty-one more steps, then a right. Six more steps, the last two onto the carpeted floor of an elevator. I have no idea which button is pressed, but we go up for five seconds. Exit with three more steps and turn left. Straight for thirty-seven steps, then over a high threshold. There we stop, and I feel the guard tugging at my blindfold.

I doubt this is the best place to run the next time I break out, but no reason not to figure out where it is. I'll take a look around as the water's going and see if there's anything promising. I'd have to figure out the number of floors if I find reason to come back, but at least the stairwell is close enough to the elevator the distances won't really differ.

No sooner has the cloth been plucked from my face than the guards pulls back, the door slamming with a hiss. It takes a moment of squeezing my eyelids before I can see what's in front of me.

This is not a shower. The back wall is less than an arm's length away, and the sides of the room are only a bit farther out. Everything is a solid but dull steel blue, as far as the surfaces go. The lone, old-fashioned lightbulb dangles dimly from naked wires, and some sort of metal pipe gapes from another tightly-sealed hole in the ceiling. When I turn towards the door, my shadow obscures most of it. I can still press my hand against the cool metal, but once I find the handle, it won't turn.

So, what is this? Some other experiment? That would make sense, although I can't fathom why they would tell me this is a shower—

I look back at that little pipe as my throat clenches. They wouldn't _dare_.

I turn on my heel and put my hands to the door. The handle's still holding tight, and there's no gap between the door and the frame. I try to pry the metal off with my fingers, anyway. No luck.

Behind me I hear a soft whoosh. Taking a deep breath, I look at the pipe. At this point, the mist is barely visible. A little bit of bluish white.

I start ramming the door while the room still smells damp and briny. There's almost no space for me to gain momentum, but kicking does nothing. I charge, and a bolt of pain shoots down from my shoulder. The rebound nearly knocks me back into the wall, but I roll my shoulders back and try again. The metal screams and dents a bit, but it doesn't really budge.

I'm starting to smell the gas now—almonds and a little bit of burning plastic. It's already getting too concentrated. Am I starting to breathe shallowly, or is it just from hitting the door?

I rake my fingers along the sides looking for hinges, but the door opened the other way. Swallowing, I grip the handle with both hands and force my weight onto it. It doesn't shift any more. But if I can rip it off, I may be able to take out the lock, or at least diffuse the gas somewhere the enemies wouldn't want it.

Already something doesn't seem right with my pulse. I can't say what, though, so maybe I'm imagining it. At any rate, I keep attacking the door handle. It might be giving a little more, or not. The fog is starting to obscure my view.

I put one hand over my mouth to at least block a bit of gas, but I know I'm still breathing it. Into my lungs, into my bloodstream, stopping respiration cell by cell until there's so little energy left that...

My shoulder slams into the door again, the numb tingling down my arm not going away. Another charge, and the door screeches, but I can't tell if it dents. Between the fog in the room and the slowly growing dimness in my sight, I almost lose track of where the door is. My forehead feels tight, and the next time I ram the door, my legs collapse from under me. The side of my head hits something—the door? The wall? The ground? The gas—I can't tell—too hard to see—the door—don't know—dim—numb—gas—enemies—_bastards_...

* * *

The next thing I know, I'm back in my room. My wrist is secured to the same bedpost, and the rest of me has been dumped on the mattress carelessly. Aside from the expected pain at the bottom of my ribs, several aches have crept in from my awkward sleeping position. I have to pace myself in sitting up.

"Morning," calls a guard in a snide voice.

I rub my eyes and peer at him. The pale with with the wispy, brown moustache and the superiority complex. Not exactly my favorite.

"Sleep well?" he continues smoothly.

I just keep staring.

With a throaty chuckle, he takes a few slow steps towards me. His arms are folded as he looks down on me. "Shame you had to come back from that death."

Pulse throbbing, I slowly get to my feet without dropping my stare. Even having to look up at me, he's no less smug.

"It would have been fitting," he says, lingering just a bit out of my reach. "Proper redress for what you did to all those Jews."

And suddenly a glare isn't enough.

"That would be fine—" I try to pull my wrist far enough to get at him, but the bed's side is still fixed to the wall—"if _I_ had anything—" burning under my skin, I pull hard enough to make the fasteners screech—"to do with that!"

With a horrible shriek, the bed breaks out of the fasteners and leaps from the wall. The guard barely has time to show fear before I send the metal frame crashing into his back one-handed. He cries out as rib crack and he slams to the ground. I'm nearly bowled over by the momentum myself, but I manage to step quickly enough to keep my balance.

By now the guard has gotten out his gun, and I can't get out of the way in time. A bullet tears through the underside of my chin and tongue before plunging through my palate and into my brain. I have just enough time to decide this was worth it before I fall to the ground senseless.


	6. Response

Something is tightening over my chest.

It takes a minute to push back my headache enough to open my eyes. I'm back on the table—should have figured that out from the antiseptic smell alone—with my legs and torso already secured. James fiddles with the leathery strap across my chest before looking at me.

"I imagine you didn't enjoy the last experiment," he starts, popping his knuckles.

Between the hangover-worthy pounding in my head and the weird soreness in the middle of my tongue, it's a bit hard to respond. "Correct," I manage.

He sighs, not so happy-looking for once. "It was Henri's idea, you know. There really isn't much more research to be done on cyanide poisoning, unless you want to do an interview over what it felt like." He goes back to smiling. "But I guess if they honor my requests, they have to consider the other guards', too."

Taking my left wrist, he starts, "And now I have to dislocate your shoulders so your arms can be crossed for the next procedure." He shrugs. "Sorry."

Glancing at the wrist restraints, I tense my arm. "You don't have to if you'd rather not." My voice still sounds clouded.

He laughs. "Orders are orders."

Before I can react, he wrenches my arm out of its socket. I manage to limit my response to a grunt as he fastens my wrist to the table. I don't bother fighting as he reaches for my other arm.

"Probably wouldn't have to do this—" pop goes the other shoulder—"if your arms weren't so big." He shakes his head laughing as he crosses my forearms. "Nice job with the bed yesterday. Henri won't be coming back for a while." He glances past me. "Of course, now we've welded the entire side of the bed to the wall, so I don't think you'll be doing it again."

Securing my other wrist, he steps back and claps his hands together. "There's that, then. I'll call for the scientists."

I can't reply with both arms crushing down on my chest. I'm starting to wonder if this next experiment is on slow suffocation.

And James is okay with that. He thinks some of the discomfort is wrong, and he thinks the little gas chamber was wrong, but everything else is fine. I don't understand. What is he getting from the rest of this? How is he justifying this if he can still have qualms about the other experiment? What good could come of this and be enough for him?

The door slides shut behind a small group of enemies and their instrument table. Two with notepads start scribbling as the others set up, two on each side. They wipe some of the caked sweat off my sides and demand scalpels from their assistants.

The first incisions don't seem like much, just thin lines of fire down the sides of my chest. The blades trace rectangles from the bottom of my ribs to just a bit below my armpits, both enemies working in near-synchrony. Then the man on my right slips his latex-covered fingernails into the shallow wound and tears down.

I didn't think I had enough air in me to scream this loud. But I am, and somehow the top layer of flesh on my side is still slowly pulling away in uneven shreds. I don't know what it is, but this seems far too painful for what little damage is being done. Have they torn away skin like this before? If not, why now? Is this the entire experiment, dealing pain? Or is this punishment?

I can't stay on that train of thought when fingertips sink into my other side. A stream of sweat runs down past my temple before the flesh starts separating from the networks beneath. I don't even realize I'm trying to somehow break out of the restraints until I kick hard enough to split my ankle and send blood running down it. That's hardly enough to snap me out of it, though.

Air brushes my intercostals on both sides before I regain some presence of mind. First, I stop screaming. Despite the overexcited nerves across my ribs, it isn't that difficult. My throat is already hoarse, and it's so hard to breathe I have the feeling I'm not experiencing the pain in full force.

When the enemy at my right brings his scalpel to the muscles, it takes every bit of my strength to keep from screaming again. I won't do it. I can't escape these restraints, so the only I can fight is to shut my mouth. And I'm not about to surrender to these people.

Gloved knuckles brush against one wound as the enemies cut, and I try to focus my blood-slicked ankle instead. Honestly, I can't even say that it hurts at all in comparison. Instead, I keep my eyes closed and try to tense up so much I can't fight against my restraints.

My left arm and the top of my chest have one numb by the time all of the undesired muscle has been stripped away. Two faint rings signal both scalpels returning to their tables. I try to relax a bit, but every little motion sends jolts of pain down my sides and tearing sensations through my shoulders. These injuries shouldn't take long to heal, so maybe I'll be let off the table before the end of the day.

I hear a metal grinding noise, and then something rubs up against an exposed rib on my left. Immediately I realize I've spoken too soon. This is the real experiment. I should have recognized the symmetry as setting up a control.

Under pressure I don't feel like identifying, one rib snaps. I make the mistake of cringing, and the motion sense a new wave of fire across my other side. Setting my jaw, I narrowly keep my response to a grunt.

The enemy moves on, snapping the same rib near the other edge of the dissected area. I'm getting close to crushing my teeth as he delicately removes the free piece. When a rib is clipped on my right side, I yell. What I hope is sweat runs down a cheek as I struggle to quiet myself. A salty rivulet goes down my side, and the enemy just lets it run into the wound. I nearly black out.

What are they doing? What are they _doing_ to me? Why can't they just stop? Why can't they... Why... It hurts...

In an attempt to focus on anything else, I open my eyes. The lights above me are blinding. Vague figures of enemies work at my sides, though I can't tell if any new damage is being dealt anymore. Eventually I can see that they're not facing me. Murmuring at their assistants, they watch the note-takers weight the bones, which aren't quite the same size. Maybe they're not the same—one from the T6 rib and the other from T7, or something. I wonder if those are the two I broke on Henri.

The glass boxes of scales give good enough readouts for the recorders to remove the ribs. When the enemies put the pieces on the table, the bones rubbing against my gaping wounds, I finally lose consciousness.

* * *

It does not get better. The wounds close up, of course, but that's just what the enemies want. They perform the same procedure again, putting the pieces of rib a little farther from me to see if they'll still be reincorporated. They are. The experiment continues.

At last they find the distance where it's less trouble for my body to grow new bone. Then they see if putting the pieces in a close container changes that. Then, how closed a container? What if the pieces are crushed first? If they're crushed more thoroughly? If they're otherwise damaged?

I don't know just how long it's gone on. I'm not sure if the same set of enemies is responsible each time. Maybe if I killed them, this would stop. I'd never be able to, but I really think I'm willing to now. Before, I didn't want to stoop to that level. Now, I'm not sure there's much farther down I could go.

I don't care anymore when I scream. I can't fight it now, anyway. I'm too worn down. Regeneration leaves my sides more tender every time, and I've been given a negligible amount of food since this started. THe latter's not all bad, because I've yet to be taken off the table even use the toilet. Apparently I heal fast enough that contamination is less of a worry than releasing and restraining me over and over again.

I hope this is meant to be punishment, because it's working. I am never striking a guard again. Not whoever it was that started this, nor James, who just leans against the wall examining his fingernails when it's his turn to watch my sides be peeled away. Some ally he turned out to be.

I guess I was expecting too much from him. Sure, he's friendly and cuts me whatever slack he can, but he's still a guard. Still one of them.

I'm alone in the room now, the lights out. Time to sleep, though I can't imagine accomplishing that in this condition. I'm certainly exhausted enough, but when every little air current feels like razor blades down my sides, rest just isn't happening. Maybe I can just black out from oxygen deprivation again and stay down long enough to seem like I've slept. Even that seems dubious when the sharp smells of sweat and urine are poised to snap me awake.

I briefly wonder if I could somehow escape. I know quite well that no amount of struggling can break these cuffs, but I think I can assume this experiment will end eventually. Unless the bed frame is weak enough to break, I'll have to choose a time I'm not cuffed to anything. Then everyone will be on high alert, but...

And then there's the door to get through, then halls, then stairs, then somehow hiding in a safe place without clothes or money, and then... I mean, I couldn't just go back home, especially if I'd need a plane or train.

But what does it matter? I'm never going to get that far. I might never even leave this room. At this rate, I'd be surprised if I get off this table.

No—stop that. I have no idea how, and honestly it just seems unrealistic, but I will get out. Someday, some way.

At any rate, thinking about escape now isn't doing any good. So I just do my best to keep still and hope I can fall asleep.


	7. Release

"I know you're awake."

James is right, but I still don't want to open my eyes. I manage to keep feigning sleep until my wrist suddenly feels open air. Then I have to look.

James makes his way to my other side, reaching under the table to release my left wrist. For some reason I just stare at the raw marks left behind as some of the pressure leaves my chest. Then again, at this point I'm not sure I can move my arm, anyway. It's never stayed dislocated this long.

A hand lifting my wrist sends a jolt through my deltoid. James carefully poses my forearm and starts to maneuver the joint back into place. With everything being twisted, it's hard to concentrate, but at least there's skin on my sides again.

"Managed to get a little sleep in this morning, I see."

I grunt, partly in reply and partly because my shoulder joint has finally popped in.

"That's good. You'll need the energy for today." He starts on my other arm. "This part is over, but that doesn't mean the rest'll be easy."

"Believe me," I start, voice so hoarse the words barely make it out alive. "In comparison, everything else is easy."

He chuckles. "That's the spirit."

My other shoulder goes back into place a bit more smoothly, and he moves on to the torso restraints.

"What am I in for today?" I ask.

"Lots of fun." He releases my ankles. "Think you can stand?"

Taking a deep breath, I try to push myself to a seated position. With my skin nearly plastered to the table and the lack of motion recently, it's not a pleasant experience. The absence of bathroom breaks doesn't help.

James watches over me as I steel myself and leave the operation table. My knees nearly buckle, but I grab the edge of the table before I can hit the floor. James pulls up on my elbow until I'm standing.

"Good," he says, reaching into a back pocket. "Didn't mess you up too much."

I just give him a look, and he shrinks back with a quiet laugh.

"Right. So then!" He nods at the bathroom corner. "I imagine you might need the toilet at this point." With a flourish, he presents what he had been holding behind his back. "Thought you could use a change of garb."

I blink at the boxers before reaching for them. Although I feel like I should thank him, what comes out of my mouth is, "They're red."

"Er, yes." He hesitates to let go. "Are you allergic or something?"

"No." With a sigh, I take them. "Thanks."

"No problem."

He steps back, and I take care of what I have to. I consider trying to wash off with antiseptic, but my shoulders and chest ache too much to let me get much done. Instead I just sit on the mattress. James cuffs me while I'm here.

"I'll go grab your lunch," he says, slipping out.

Apparently the tray was waiting just outside, because he doesn't even bother closing the door. Without another comment, he sets the food beside me, the mattress squeaking.

I'm a few bites in before I notice. "No drink?"

I may be starving, but there's no use shoveling it down when my throat's too dry to swallow.

"Oh, right!" He goes through the whole routine to open the door again and returns holding out a bottle.

"No idea what kind it is," he says, looking at the label for a moment, "but it was the only beer with German writing, so... yeah."

He sets it on an empty spot on the tray, and I just stare at it dumbly. Little drops of condensation dot the sides, and the label bears the name of my favorite brand. Everything about it seems perfect, but—it's impossible. It must be empty, or poisoned, or... I don't know what they're trying to do to me, but I'll have to approach this with caution and restraint—

James takes the lid off with a snap, and suddenly both of my hands are wrapped around the bottle and trembling. It's as cold as it looks. The rim is smooth against my chapped lower lip as I go for the first swig. Nothing wrong with it. All perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect—and I'm not going to cry right now. Seriously think I might, but—

Suddenly the beer stops coming. I look at the bottle in confusion before tipping it back again. No luck. No more.

James bursts out laughing, and I lower the empty glass without looking at him.

"Apparently I chose well," he says, stroking the bottle in his own hands. I peer at it long enough he starts laughing again.

"No, this one's mine. You wouldn't be interested, anyway. Since I'm not allowed to drink on the job, this is just—ah—" he checks the label—"Coke." With a wink, he takes a sip. I suppose that hidden camera he likes to glance at can't pick up the smell of ethanol.

I just check my bottle one last time before setting it on the floor. That was... I can't even describe it. It was like the hyperbole of receiving something longed for. I can't think of any other way to put it into words.

The best I can do is turn to James and say, "Thank you." My voice is weaker than I intended.

"No problem," he says, rubbing his lips together. "Thought you could use it."

I nod and look at my dirty feet. It probably took little strain on his part, but it really means a lot. Even if now all I have left is the quickly-souring aftertaste.

So, what? Is he my friend now? That's what he seems to want, but it's hard for me to figure out what I think. He may have freed me from the table, but he also put me there in the first place.

I go back to my meal with a buzzing mind, but I don't make any progress sorting things out before an alarm bell rings. With its high-pitched clatter, I'm sure there must be a fire, but the sound cuts off after a few seconds.

Taking a deep breath, James glances at that corner of the ceiling and then watches me take the last bite of my meat.

"Not sure what that was all about," he says quickly, stepping up to me. After setting his empty bottle on the ground, he puts his hand in his pocket. With an exhale, he looks casually at the door and back at me. "Need to use the bathroom or anything?" Under his breath he adds, "Say yes."

I look at him for a second before slowly nodding. "Yeah."

"All right, then," he says, squatting to reach my cuff. After spinning his keys in his hand, he unlocks me. The open cuff clatters to the floor, and I rub my wrist a bit before standing. James is still watching me, so I take a few steps towards the far corner. Then the sharp alarm bell makes me jump. Good thing I turn around, because otherwise I wouldn't have noticed the door opening.

James looks at the gap, then me. Lunging, he seizes my wrist, but it's a weak grip I could easily break.

"Run, you idiot!" he yells, hurtling towards the door with me in tow. "Do I have to hold your bloody hand the whole time?"

I stumble after him into the hallway, and he directs me to the left before letting go.

"Try to keep up, all right?"

By now, England has dropped the fake accent.


	8. Mad Getaway

Hoping my feet don't slip on the smooth floor, I stay after him. I don't know how he got the door open, because there are no guards here. It must have been whoever set off the alarm. How many are involved in this jailbreak? Couldn't say now, but it's nice to know I haven't really been alone. I still can't help but wish this could have happened a bit faster, though.

After turning a corner, we're no longer alone. Only the guard at the front has his gun raised, but England seizes his wrist and points the barrel to the ground before the guard is even really aiming for me. Two others go for their holsters as England disarms him. I drive my elbow into the stomach of the woman nearest me, and she bends over coughing. By the time I have her in a sleeper hold, England has taken care of the guard in front.

The guard has just gone slack in my arm when pain explodes across the base of my skull. Releasing the woman, I stumble back, blinking the bright spots away. An arm slips around my own neck, but I feel the guard's chest and shoulders behind me, and I manage to ram us back against the wall before he can choke me out. After the initial thud, my attacker's arm loosens enough to be an annoyance rather than a danger, so I smash him back against the jutting corner and then twist out of his hold. He doesn't free his neck as well as I did mine, and soon he gets to join his coworker on the ground.

I turn to see England smashing a fist into another guard's stomach. Within one more move, he's brought the man down hard on the floor face-first.

The last guard standing furrows his brow. "So, James—"

"Not my name," England interrupts, forcing the other man's nose into his skull. "Thanks for breakfast the other day, though."

Howling in pain, the guard resorts to his gun, but England twists the man's other arm enough for him to drop the weapon. A bullet blasts out when the gun hits the ground, embedding itself in the wall as England finally knocks the guard out. After looking over the rest one more time, England gives me a nod of approval and takes us to the stairwell. He silently holds the door open until I'm in, and up we go.

The alarm continues ringing in pulses that make my head pound, and grainy ridges on the stair steps cut into my feet. My sides ache from the gasping for breath, and I start to wonder if I'm really healed or if the strain could re-fracture a rib in the middle of all of this. All the while, orange-red lights color the walls in flashes, and I'm just trying to make myself go up, turn, up, turn.

I've lost track of the number of flights when I hear a door slam open. England swears breathlessly as another pair of footsteps breaks through a pause in the blaring. They're up above. Coming to a stop, England makes sure I'm here before slipping a hand inside his jacket. I barely hear, "Hope you've figured out how the stairs are spaced" before he flings his handful at the top of the next flight. Smoke explodes above us, and then we're running into the cloud.

It doesn't hurt my breathing much, although I'm in such poor shape it's hard to tell. My eyes water a bit, and all of the different lights fragmenting and reflecting in the fog is disorienting enough to make my stomach clench. That's not important, though. As long as the others can't see any better, we're good. They should know that if they fire blind, they could end up with a nasty ricochet.

I may not have been counting the stairs this time, but there still seem to be ten in every turn. Between that and the handrail, I'm able to keep climbing pretty well.

My head grazes something soft before my hand meets another. The other person draws back, but I've already realized he's almost silent. Definitely not someone who's just scaled several flights of stairs, and so definitely not a friend of mine.

My mind freezes up, but I feel my arm whipping out to catch the guard. I've only just solidified my grip before I rip his hand off the railing and fling him down the steps behind me. Sore shoulder screaming in protest, I try to bite down the pain and just keep going.

Some yelling comes from just above, accompanied by the thud of blows hitting flesh. I've made it past the worst of the smokescreen, but I can still only see the haziest of silhouettes come crashing down past me.

"Not much longer now!" Sounds like England's still up above, thankfully, so I put my feet back into motion and keep climbing. The smoke is dissipating, and I've nearly grown deaf to the constant clanging. Not bad. I just need to keep pushing myself a while longer. No idea what I'll have to face once we leave the stairwell, but I'm sure England has a plan. I doubt he's been hanging around here for weeks for the fun of it.

My eyes have stopped stinging by the time England slams a stairwell door open. I hurry after him and into a hallway. Or, I assume it's a hallway. Shadows coat whatever's there. The lights along the walls dye everything a fuzzy red before going off again. Yeah, I think it's a hallway.

Deciding it's worth the trouble to lead me by the wrist, England charges ahead. I try to ignore the stabs shooting through my shoulder as we run. It's impossible to make out much in the brief floods of light, but I see some desks with name plates; plain, stubbly walls; the occasional table and coffee pot. No other guards, or anyone. I'm not complaining.

A few turns leave traces of carpet-burn on my heels, but then we're surging straight towards a door, daylight struggling to get through a thin panel of window above it. Sunlight. Actual sunlight...

We slow down at the entryway, and the throbbing in my calves and sides is starting to catch up with me. I hope we don't have much farther to go. Somehow the guards have pretty much cleared out, but surely they haven't stationed themselves outside of the building. With such an ordinary setup on the ground floor, they must be trying to hide what's been going on here, so they wouldn't want to draw attention from the outside. Right? Right.

I nearly get my face bashed in by the door when England swings it open. Yellow light spills into the entryway, and I'm already outside before I can see more than that. A little front sidewalk, cold enough to make my feet ache, and a bumpy lot with some small cars filling faintly demarcated spaces. The air is fresh, with a faint smell of grass and snow. Sunlight is everywhere, casting sharp shadows, reflecting off bumpers, warming my skin.

I'm outside right now. No cuffs, no restraints. I'm seriously getting out. I have an ally, we're going somewhere in particular, and it's not back down there. This is all really happening.

...Right? Yeah. Yeah, there's no way this could just be some simulation. This is real sunlight, real—grass now, underfoot. Sort of prickly, and sticking to my toes, honestly not that pleasant in and of itself. But it's outside the cage—_I'm_ outside the cage—and that's all that matters.

Well. As long as I stay that way.


	9. One False Step

We're only a few meters into the field before I realize just how dead on my feet I am. So much sweat is pouring off me it's hard not to lose my footing, and I'm panting hard enough my throat is trying to close itself up. My limbs feel leaden, and such a pounding is going through my dehydrated head it's hard to see straight. Thankfully it's not too hard to keep track of Ja—er, England running ahead of me.

It's still hard to believe it's been him this whole time. Maybe there's a chance he could have swooped in and taken the real James's place just before this, but... it makes too much sense otherwise. Why he wanted to help. Why he couldn't try to put a stop to things before all the pieces were in place. That part took him long enough, but I'm sure coming to this point was no easy task. I'll just trust that he didn't actually want to pass so much time—

I don't hear the shot until the bullet's already in my calf. I'm too loaded with adrenaline to feel it much, but I sense instantly that a limp has crept into my run.

Just don't stop. Maybe England wasn't expecting this turn of events, and I doubt the shooter is satisfied with me injured non-lethally, but if I stop at all, I'm not sure I'll be able to start again.

England swears, looking behind his shoulder. Someone shooting from the building's higher floors, I'm sure. I think to ask how far we are from our getaway—and if it's bulletproof—but my lungs refuse to do any work beyond the huffing and puffing. That's all right. Surely we can't be far. If we make it past this guy's range, I'm sure we're in the clear. We already waited this long, so everything should be perfect. Admittedly it's not going the smoothest so far, but it could be a lot worse.

* * *

_I'm starting to think these stairs will never end. They're a bit on the steep side, and they turn frequently, but that's nothing I can't handle. Charging up in my bare feet makes my toes cramp, and I suspect one of the end-ridges has drawn blood from my right heel, but that I can force down just as well as the screaming burns on my chest._

_What worries me is how long this is going on. I just turned my back on the sixteenth door out of the stairwell. It feels like I've gone that many floors, but it's still hard to swallow. How far down have I been this whole time? The room may have been warm from time to time, but the walls were always cold. Surely I couldn't be that far. It would just take too much energy to keep one prisoner at those depths._

_Of course, I may not be the only prisoner. But let's not think about that. I'm going to get out. Focus on pushing ahead._

_The nineteenth door is behind me, but I hear it open. The guard hollering, "Stop!" is a bit clearer to my ears. My own collision with the stairs when I look back echoes the sharpest._

_Stair edges shred off scraps of red, blistered skin before I can catch myself, and for a moment I can't figure out whether I need to focus on not tearing up or getting up. I shake my head in an attempt to regain my presence of mind, but by the time I'm back on my feet, a chilly gun muzzle is lodged behind my shoulder-blade. _

_Swearing internally, I take a deep breath. A guard is behind me with a gun, which I have no reason to assume is empty. I'm in the middle of an experiment, so he'd probably prefer not to shoot me or cause other injury. Unfortunately, I've already thrown my own handful of variables in, so they might think it's easier to completely start over. Get a fresh set of metal bars, heat them white, press each in careful succession down my torso. The first contact so brief I can hardly register the heat before it's removed. The second stripe down pressed on me long enough to sear much worse. The next held to my skin so long I can feel the massive heat throughout my body but no more pain where the nerves have been destroyed..._

_Stop. You're escaping now. Focus on that._

_Hope quickly dying, I whip around, slapping my palm into the wrist with the gun, but the trigger is pulled before I have it aimed away. The bullet tears into my shoulder, its momentum twisting me backwards, stretching my damaged skin. Gritting my teeth, I turn back to shove the guard down, but he puts two shots in my chest before I can even steady my balance. _

_My back hits the stairs this time, enough blood coming out to let me slide down more easily. I feel the froth building in my lungs as I try to somehow get back up, but the guard just sneers, jerking me up by the arm as everything goes black._

* * *

But I'm already out of the stairwell. And now I have an ally, with a plan. I may be tired, but there's less pain now, and I have to make it this time, or we're both in danger.

Now, failure is not an option. So let's finally make my escape.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I really appreciate you taking a little time to cheer me on.


	10. Good News, Bad News

The next shot hits the grass by England's feet. He takes another look back, nearly stumbling on a dead patch of grass in the process, but keeps going. The haphazard zigzag running pattern we adopted seems to be throwing off the shooter. It had better. It's halfway throwing _me_ off. My small lunch threatens to resurface as we continue hurtling in every which direction, and I feel sure I won't be able to stop it. It doesn't really matter at this point. Just aim sideways and keep running.

Taking in more of my surroundings would make me far too dizzy, but I'm still dying to figure out where I am. It's November or December, and.. it's cold, isn't it? I think so. I'm feeling hot and cold in waves, and I don't think any part of my fighting and sprinting would make me cold, so the weather it is. Then, this is the Northern Hemisphere, probably.

Is there anything else? James—England—England posing as James said that he had the only beer with German writing, so that would knock out countries or regions with a significant amount of German speakers. That still leaves a lot of options open, but I at least know I'm not near home.

I guess that's a good thing. Since they first captured me in my home, I'll have to avoid it for some time, anyway. I doubt the enemies have set up a twenty-four-hour watch of the place, but there's no reason to risk being caught there. It would be nice to have some of my clothes, of course, and... the place must be so dusty by now...

Nope. Not going back. Prussia could have taken care of that, anyway. Although I doubt he could stay there for long. Too recognizable.

Do the enemies know what the others look like? Supposing the best case scenario, where they only knew I was a nation... They would still have my house. My photos. My phone. The list of numbers beside it. I have everyone by their country names on there, don't I? Idiot!

Well—maybe it's okay. Surely no one would be stupid enough to meet the enemies somewhere just because they're using my phone number. I mean, Italy is... Italy, but he knows my voice. It would be easier to replicate over the phone, though... And I did my share of talking the first week of being tortured... And who knows how long they were monitoring me beforehand, anyway...?

No, no, no. Just stop. I should get plenty of information on the situation from England and whoever else is behind him. Right now, I'm escaping. Or trying not to get shot. Either way, there's no need to worry about the others at this moment.

I at least don't seem to have bled out, but the shot in my leg has taken its toll. England keeps looking back at me, trying not to go too fast, but I still keep lagging behind. At this point I have to wonder if I haven't been shot again. It's hard to tell when I'm already so beaten-down. All of the first symptoms of blood loss—pallor, high pulse, dizziness, faintness, nausea—I already have regardless. I don't think I feel any blood on me, aside from what's already slid down my calf. It's quite a bit warmer than the sweat that's trying to freeze me from all over.

We're running up a slope before I realize we're going straight. Nothing wrong with that. Less of a chance to toss my stomach around. We are out of the shooter's range, right?

I consider throwing a glance back, but it wouldn't do any good. The shooter will be able to see me a lot farther than I him. What would I do if I saw him aiming here, anyway? I can't run faster or shout to England that we should be doing this more evasively. I'll just trust his judgment. It's gotten me this far.

After one more lunge over the grassy slope, we're standing on a roadway. It's flat but coarse and cold on my feet, and there's no moving now that England has come to a stop. My pulse rockets through my feet strong enough I have to be swaying side to side, and, the way I'm feeling, I might just fall right back down that slope.

England checks his watch and then looks back to check on me. "Back seat," he pants moments before a white blur of a car rockets along the curve, decelerating at the last minute. I make myself fling the back door open and jump inside as England boards. I'm slightly confused about him getting into the driver's seat before I realize it's not.

I'm not sure I've finished pulling my door shut before the car takes off. My right shoulder slams back into my seat as we jump into gear.

"I apologize for taking off so quickly. Are you all right?" Japan's eyes flash up at the rearview mirror.

I shift, rolling my shoulder a little although there's barely any room in here. I take a second before deciding to say: "My shoulder's fine."

With a nod, Japan turns back to the road. "We'll go a bit farther ahead and change cars. From there, I'll drive you to the airport hotel. It will take longer than the train would, but it will only be the three of us."

"Sounds good, thanks," I get out, shakily turning so I can look at my injured leg. Two wounds, entry and exit, on the same side. Bullet must be back in the grass somewhere, though that doesn't mean no pieces are left inside. But it only takes a little pressure to nearly end the bleeding altogether, and I'm sure it will heal just fine. Wish it would heal faster, maybe before the adrenaline rush wears off any more, but I know I won't have that luck.

"There are some clothes in the other seat," England says, checking the rearview mirror before pulling some skin-textured latex off his cheeks and chin. "Not much room, I know, but you should probably put them on before we change cars. Next one won't be any bigger, anyway." He looks over his shoulder at me. "How's your leg?"

"It'll be fine." I fumble with the backseat vent to blow more air on me, though I'm not sure whether I'm trying to warm up or cool down. "Airport hotel, you said?" I wipe off my forehead and reach for the shirt. Just a plain white sleeveless top.

"Yes." Japan shifts his grip on the steering wheel. "America has set up accommodations for you in Phoenix. It's important to get you as far from here as possible, but I thought you could use a bath and bed before the long flight. England has all of the reservation information, so all you need to do is stay with him."

Somehow managing to get my arms through the proper holes despite the car being narrower than my arm span, I pull the shirt over my head. "Is he flying with me, too?"

England nods, shrugging off his uniform jacket. "There seems to be another of their facilities in America, so I'll be investigating there."

"Was I the only one of us in that building?" I accidentally bump the wrong calf with my waistband and end up hissing in pain.

England frowns back at me. "Yes. They were preparing for more but didn't catch anyone yet. Never will, if we keep an eye on what's left."

"Has anyone else gone missing, before then?" It takes an awkward amount of shuffling to finally get my cargo pants on. I roll up the legs instead of letting the fabric lay slack by the bullet wound. There's a jacket here next to me, but it'll be easier to put on as I get out. For now I'll get the socks and boots on. I think my wound is above the top of the boot, so that should be fine...

I have one sock on before I realize no one in the front of the car has answered me. "Did you hear me?"

Japan nods quickly, not looking me in the eye for a moment. England is occupied taking out colored contacts.

"Has anyone else gone missing?" I repeat, finally starting to feel uniformly cold.

"Yes," England finally mutters, pulling an eyelid open.

"Who?"

"No reason for you to know." Plucking out the other contact, England tosses it in the cup holder. "You won't be going on the front lines anytime soon."

"No reason for me not to know, either." I pull on one of the boots without losing eye contact with him. "Do you really think there's anything they can do to me to make me betray information?"

Still no response, and I get the feeling there's another reason they won't tell me. I give them the time it takes to pull on my other boot, but no one speaks. Finally I do.

"Is it my brother or Italy?"

They both deflate a bit, though Japan still acts as if he hasn't heard me. England sighs, rubbing his forehead. After a moment, he shakes his head and looks out the window.

"Both," he mutters.


	11. Cool Down

"If you'd like, I can cook something nice for you."

As much as I want to go running to the shower, I can't seem to budge myself from the surface of the hotel bed. "No, I don't want anything fancy."

To be honest, I would respond to the threat of England's cooking like this regardless, but I'm really not lying. If it weren't for the lack of meals as of late, I would be too tired to want anything. Even now I doubt I'll be able to keep lifting food to my mouth enough to fill up.

"All right." Frowning, England squints at me for a second before shaking his head and toweling more specks of dye out of his hair. "I can run to a convenience store and grab some sandwich halves or rice balls or something."

"Yeah, any of that'll be fine, thanks." I exhale, fighting the urge to close my eyes so I can look at him. "Really... Thanks. For this, and whatever you had to do up till now."

"No problem." Dusting off a hat to pull over his wet hair, he pauses and smirks. "Or perhaps 'don't mention it' would be slightly more appropriate."

I manage a clipped laugh as he walks to the door.

"Don't slip in the shower or anything." He double-checks his wallet. "If I'm not back in an hour, feel free to assume something terrible has happened to me and make sure you can wake up in time for your flight on your own." With that, he opens the door to step out and shuts it quietly behind him.

Upbeat as always, huh? I still can't fathom how he could pull off being James for so long. Kudos to him, though. If any of the enemies meet him on the street, they'd never recognize him, eyebrows or otherwise.

I stare at the ceiling for a while longer before finally working up the verve to go take my shower already. Rolling to the edge of the bed, I press my palms down and get to my feet. My injured leg immediately spasms and gives out, thumping my knee into the carpet hard. With a grunt, I steel myself and get back up, all of my weight on my other leg. Slowly I make my other leg take some of the weight.

The wound has closed up to the point I know I can manage this. Regardless of my general condition, it'll be perfectly fine by morning. Unfortunately, now is not morning.

I exhale stiffly before starting to stagger towards the bathroom. It takes a bit more time and pain to get there than I'd like, but I make it in eventually and shut the door. My clothes may have been clean earlier, but a few hours of nervous sweat hasn't left them smelling so fresh. I hope England brought another set for me to wear, for the sake of the others on the eleven-hour flight with me.

Letting the water warm up, I knead the carpet impression off my knee and glance in the mirror. I look pretty grubby. I doubt much dirt got into my room, but when I'm already sticky with sweat, it can't take much for the dust outside to cling to me. Aside from the general griminess, darker rivulets of dirt stick to where fresher sweat has carried them.

My hair is absolutely disgusting. It must have been some time since I last had to regenerate my scalp, because it definitely has months' worth of... I don't even know. Stuff the antiseptic couldn't get out. Or put there in the first place.

I crawl into the shower before the water is really warm enough. I'll be in here for plenty of time, anyway. Good thing I didn't ask for something hot to eat.

And while I'm here, I won't think about anything but getting clean. Right now I'm relaxing. There's nothing I can do for anyone right now, so I'll worry about no one but myself.

I stand under the water for a few minutes before I give up and sit down under the stream. It takes me another minute before I can make myself heave my arm up to grab the soap. I'm probably going to fall asleep in here. England coming back would wake me up, though, so I don't think I'll miss the flight.

He will be coming back, right? He didn't seem particularly serious about getting caught out there, but just about every place is risky so soon after breaking out. He won't draw quite as much attention out there as I would, but any white guy doesn't exactly blend in with the natives over here. It would still be hard to recognize him as James, though. Unless they know more about him as England, I'm sure he'll be all right.

A burning jolt shoots through my shoulder, and I'm already sitting straight up before I figure out what happened. The spray was shooting straight at that little skinless square. Not fun. For all I know, getting it clean could help it regenerate, but there's no need to be reckless about things I don't understand. I've got plenty of other area to cover.

It takes some effort to scrub myself down, but it's worth it to watch my skin slowly return to its natural color. I'm seriously starting to doubt I'll be able to hold my arms up long enough to get my hair, but I guess this is my only chance—

A door bumps into its doorstop, sending a little shiver through the walls. I freeze, but once the door shuts again England calls my name.

"In here," I reply, voice echoing off the tile a bit.

"Ah, all right." He must step just behind the bathroom door, because his voice gets clearer. "Shall I throw your onigiri in the refrigerator?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

He says no more, so I try to relax a second longer before pulling the shower head down and deluging my hair.


	12. Discuss

It's late by the time I get out of the shower, but England doesn't seem to mind. He points me to my clean clothes and the refrigerator, and then turns back to the television. I'm not watching the show eagerly, but apparently the contestant has to walk a dog from one end of Tokyo to the other, while someone in what appears to be a cartoon parsnip costume stalks them and keeps jumping out to startle the dog. We're in Japan, all right.

I don't bother to put on anything but boxers before I grab my supper.

"They're both tuna mayo flavor," England says, turning down the volume a bit. "Hope you don't mind."

"That's fine." Yawning, I retrieve the rice balls and another cold bottle of beer. I feel like I should be overjoyed at that, but I'm too tired to feel much of anything. Some anxiety is all I can muster. Of course, that won't be going away anytime soon.

"How long have they been gone?" I start, settling on my bed and unwrapping the first onigiri.

He sighs, crossing his arms. "We don't know for sure about Prussia. He went out with France and Spain one night, and no one tried to contact him for a while after that. Even then, it was another few days without answering before anyone started to get suspicious." His gaze slides to me. "Can you remember if you had seen him recently before you were taken?"

I blink, stopping in the middle of securing the seaweed to the rice ball. "Yeah, he was still hanging around the house. I don't think he had run off for longer than usual beforehand."

He scratches the side of his head, his brows sinking. "He usually stays at your house?"

"Yes," I respond slowly, attempting to keep papery flakes of seaweed from falling all over the bedcovers.

He exhales shortly. "Well, don't expect me to keep tabs on everyone in Europe." He stretches. "Although I guess it makes sense enough."

"Yeah. You don't live with yours?"

England nearly chokes on his drink. "Goodness, no. I don't have a death wish."

"Ah." I guess his family doesn't quite have the same chemistry as mine. "Anyway. You think Prussia probably got taken about the same time as me?"

He tilts his chin down to look at his feet. "If you never noticed him being gone, that's probably a good assumption."

"Huh." I exhale, watching some girls on the television fawn over the contestant's dog. "I guess he didn't end up at the same 'facility' as me, though?"

"I found no sign of him. And believe me, I made sure."

He takes a sip of his drink the same time I get a swig of mine. My mind's still ready to jump into blissful overdrive at my reunion with beer, but I don't really feel like taking my focus off the topic at hand. I had to fret for hours on the frantic drive here with almost no answers, and I'm not missing any of them now.

"And Italy?"

He nods, shifting his shoulders. "He's why we delayed our breakout. They had some records of him—no name, but enough description to make it obvious—in another facility, which we have reason to believe is in Arizona. They're certainly being secretive about it, and I nearly got scalped for going into the room that yielded that information, but so goes espionage."

I take a deep breath. "So, just somewhere in Arizona, or do you have any more specific ideas?"

"I was able to find three possible locations, all in the same general area, two of which are probably traps. We'll just have to be careful and see what happens."

"All right." I swallow the first bite of onigiri with filling. Much better flavor than my fare as of late. "Are you going to break into it in the same way as mine?"

"I can't drum up too much suspicion." He sighs. "I may try to go in as a scientist or secretary, but it'll be tough so soon after this incident. We'll scope out the area a bit before slipping in so we know what will work."

I nod, wondering how in the world my jaw is already so tired less than halfway through my late supper. "Sounds good. Any idea yet where I'll fit in?"

He frowns, stopping in the middle of raising his drink to his lips. "I wouldn't want you to jump in too soon. They know what you look like, and, don't consider this an insult, but you haven't exactly been on a cushy vacation trip these past months. I don't care who you are—you need _some_ time to recover."

"You're taking some time before going in, anyway, right? That should be enough for me."

With a sigh, he drains the last of his bottle and sets it on the bedside table. "All right, all right, we'll see. Don't push yourself, though. We have plenty of others working on this."

"But they're not responsible for him," I growl. England raises his eyebrows at that, so I shake my head and look down at the remains of my rice ball. "Just—how long has he been captured?"

"Not as long as you." England squints as he tries to stifle a yawn. "Romano wasn't sure exactly when, but after a while of you not answering Italy's calls, he dragged both of them to your house. the bad guys were waiting, and only Romano managed to get away. He told Spain, and news spread from there. That was on the—" he looks at the ceiling—"twenty-forth of August."

I feel like my limbs are freezing, but I can't stop it. "And today is?"

"Eleventh December."

Trembling, I try to take another bite of supper, but I just can't manage it.

Almost four months. They have been torturing Italy for almost four months. Because he had to check on me. Because he cared enough to make sure I was all right, or at least wasn't mad at him, he has been suffering for almost four months. And the friend on the other end, the protector, the constant if somewhat unwilling rescuer, has yet to do anything to get him out.

When I exhale, it comes as a wheeze. "Are you sure you have to stake the place out first?"

"Germany..." He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Calm down, all right? It will not pay off if we go about this recklessly. I understand that he's been in there far too long already, but he'll only be there longer if we get caught."

I sit here breathing like I've been struggling to keep my head over the water in some horrendous flood. Prussia's being experimented on, and Italy's being tortured, maybe right now. And it's been that way for months and months and—how could anyone... How could Italy ever cope with this? What on earth do the enemies have to gain by keeping more than one of us? More experiments with less dead time in between? How did this even happen?

"Here—" England clicks off the television—"just go to bed; our flight's early. If you don't want the second rice ball, I can toss it in the fridge—"

"Go to bed?" I'm not sure how, but suddenly I'm standing over him. "You think I can just go to bed when my brother and my closest friend are out there somewhere being _torn apart_ and—"my voice chokes off, and my legs collapse to plant my rear on the bed.

Sitting up and facing me, England scowls. "No. I honestly don't. That's why I attempted not to tell you." Heaving a sigh, he gets up and plucks my still-wrapped rice ball from my bed. "We're working towards freeing them with every move we make, all right? Just think forward to when we release them, and try to get some sort of rest tonight, all right?"

With a sigh, he opens the small refrigerator door and throws the onigiri in. "There's a good amount of ale in here yet if you need more."

"Yeah. Grab me a few," I grumble, unable to do anything but shake my head in some variety of shock or disbelief.

A muted chorus of clinks signals my drinks meeting the bed stand, and I glance up to see England pulling back his covers. He only meets my gaze for a moment before exhaling and looking down.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, lowering himself onto his bed. "But I promise you we're doing our best."

I close my eyes and nod, thinking the words should be of some comfort but not feeling any.


	13. Welcome Back

I feel myself wake up, a dim light making my eyelids glow reddish. There's still a soapy smell around me, although I can tell I've been sweating. It's pretty cold in here, though. Was I having nightmares? I can't remember anything. Can't remember falling asleep, either.

Although my eyes are tired enough to feel dried-out, I make myself open them. Trying to blink away the blur, I slowly sit up.

Cold metal hitting my wrist stops me halfway through. My heart clenches for a second, and all I have to do is look down to see the same old shackle chaining me to the same piece-of-crap bed. Linens not nearly as clean as those in the hotel bunch up around my hips. The bed frame is welded to the metal wall of my cage.

Surges of adrenaline make me shiver more than the cold as I try to rein in the panic. It's the same room, all right. No England in sight, but the reek of antiseptic still diffuses from the forced operating table not too far from me.

How—how did this happen? Did they track us somehow—did they have something implanted in me, or England, or...? Were they just waiting for us to fall asleep so they wouldn't cause as much of a fuss? How did they get into our hotel room? Do they have connections here? Did they just break in through the window? How much time has passed—how long...?

I bet we missed our flight. What are they going to do about getting Italy? England must have been captured by the enemy, too—who's even left? If we've been captured and held, what have the enemies done to keep the others from getting us again? Is anyone going to come back for us—or have they already, and failed? How could this have possibly failed so—?

_Click. Hiss. _The door—the door is opening. Please be England with the key. Don't be—don't be...

Enemies. And a guard, the female one. The door shuts behind them, and I know I'm about to go to the table. Probably not for research, either. If attacking a guard gets me a punishment, what are they going to do to me for running clear to Narita?

Only as the enemies set up their instrument table do I notice the marks on my sides. Black marker, it looks like, tracing a rectangle over both of my sides. It's a lot wider than the sections they ripped out last time.

And that's what they're going to do now, isn't it? Strap me to the table, no food, no breaks, and for all I know they'll let me dehydrate to death, too—what does it matter as long as I come back for more? Or can I keep coming back without anything but pain to the point I don't even want to? But they'll just keep ripping the flesh away again and again, again, again, again, _no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no_!

Even though the guard is almost here to unlock me, I wrench myself around with all the strength my panic-fueled body can muster in an attempt to break the cuff chain.

And then the metal's not on my wrist anymore. Dripping sweat, I try to figure out if it snapped open from the pressure, but all I can see by my arm is sheets warped into wrinkles where my fist hits them. The mattress trembles from the impact, but it doesn't jab at me with the tips of its springs. I'm looking at my ink-free sides before I start to piece things together.

"And now I'm glad we splurged on the two-bed room." England's slow statement fades off with a yawn, his mattress making a slight crunching sound as he pushes himself up on his elbows.

As my heart seems to make some progress in hammering through my ribs, I make a choking sound and let myself collapse onto the bed. Of the Narita Tobu Airport Hotel. Not the cage.

It wasn't even a nightmare, just pieces of a waking flashback...

Trying to slow down my breathing, I roll face-up to look at the ceiling. Hard to see in the dim light, but it's not that uniform grey. I'm still safe. Calm down a little...

I nearly jump off the bed when the alarm starts screaming. England, still rubbing his eyes, makes some comment about good timing and shuts it off. Standing up and stretching, he looks down at me.

"Are you all right?" His words are still a bit slurred together from drowsiness.

"Yeah," I say, but my voice is so tight it sounds like I'm about to burst into tears.

"Okay..." He pulls his shirt down and clicks on the lamp. "I'm starting up the water heater, so if you want coffee or something, there's that. Do you want your leftovers for breakfast?"

Feeling like an idiot, I attempt to stop gasping for breath. "I'm not hungry," I say weakly.

"They'll serve some meals on the plane, so there's no need to stuff yourself now, anyway." Plugging in the water heater, he turns back around and sighs. "So, uh, do you need anything besides a little time?"

"No. No," I say, pushing myself up with arms shaking from the adrenaline, "I'll just... go get dressed."

"All right."

Wishing I hadn't drunk all of my beer last night for reasons other than the headache, I force myself to get up and try to process where I am. Not quite able to string logical thoughts together at the moment, I just stumble over to the clothes that have never seen the inside of that cage and hopefully—no, definitely—never will.


	14. Stationary

_The worst part is that the door's wide open. Granted, my wrist is still chained to the bed, so I can't exactly get over there and drag myself through. And I'm sure as heck not going to be walking._

_Sitting up as much as I can, I prod the side of my thigh. The skin seems oddly rubbery when my finger is the only side that can feel anything. There's no sensation at my hips, either, but my waist is starting to prickle as the nerve cells figure out how to reconnect. I honestly don't mind if it stays that way for a while. The warped pieces of steel and glass have worked their way out of my back by now, but that doesn't mean nothing in that vicinity is going to hurt._

_I'm guessing this experiment was supposed to mimic spinal injury from an automobile accident. Maybe one in particular. Maybe involving someone one of the enemies loves, if these people are even capable of that emotion. Since they haven't told me what's going on and I'm not about to ask, there's no way to be sure. All I know is I'm not going to be so curious the next time they secure me face-down and start up some screeching machine behind me._

_My foot looks odd when all of its muscles are so slack. I can't change it, though. Can't wriggle my toes, can't flex my ankles, can't bend my knees. No matter how much I focus, no matter how hard I try, none of it will budge. It's really the stuff of nightmares. Thankfully, in my case, I'll wake up soon._

_A rattling alerts me to the guard by my wrist. Taking out his keys, he seizes my cuffed wrist and twists it to be convenient for him. I must be going to the table so the enemies can check on my healing progress. Probably some dissection to get rid of the patch of skin and muscle that's already grown back, and then prodding at the exposed nerves. Fun stuff._

_The cuff and chain clatter against the bed frame before I realize the door is still open. My chest is already pressing against the cold floor by the time the guard has registered me pushing myself off the mattress. I get to drag myself forward about a meter, and then the toe of a boot hits my mouth with a crack. My front teeth strain against my gums as my head snaps back and falls back down, the chill of the floor seeping through my cheek almost feeling nice in comparison._

_"Ah! Door is still open, yes?" the guard comments, grinning. "So this is your only chance to escape. Go ahead, try again."_

_He takes a few steps back, holding his hands behind him and maintaining an amused grin. He has a million ways to stop me, and I may have a chance of taking him down, but he's not the only one here. I'm sure I could drag myself out of this place, but I'm not going to outrun anyone if I'm not running. This is not the time to break out. I may want to try, but that's exactly what this guard wants, and I am not going to give it to him._

_Spitting on his boot, I heave myself up and, nearly dragging the mattress onto the floor, manage to pull myself back onto the bed. The guard tuts and, as one of the enemies peeks in, grabs me roughly, flipping me onto the table for more experimentation. _

_But not for long. Once I get my legs back..._

* * *

The dream fades as I slowly slip into consciousness. My seat is vibrating a bit, and the complimentary tiny imitation of a pillow has somehow made its way down to my right shoulder. That's probably why there's a crick in my neck now, but it'll go away soon enough. The airplane chair isn't terribly comfortable, even reclined as far as it can go, but I still managed to fall asleep in it, apparently. Good enough.

I start to sit up, but something across my chest stops me. Looking down, I see England's arm reaching across.

"Careful." He sips something from an airline cup. "You slept through two meals, and there's no point in knocking them over before you try them."

He pulls his arm back, and I see the two trays of food precariously shoved up against the chair in front of me.

"Thanks." Stifling a yawn, I slowly raise the seat back and pluck the pillow out from behind me. "How long have I been out?"

England marks his place in his book and shuts it. Glancing at the screen on the seat in front of him, he says, "About nine hours."

"No way." Shifting so I'm not leaning on the snoozing guy to my right, I manage to read the flight progress on the screen before it switches to a visual. Less than two hours left. Wow.

"Being dead tired has its perks, I suppose," England says, taking a sip from an airline cup. "Wish I could have slept that much. Although my jet lag is always terrible regardless."

"Mine, too." I investigate one of the closed containers on my tray. An omelette that's still somewhat warm, with a few small sausages. "A little weird how quickly I got used to, uh, just sleeping whenever." Can't say too much. Flying with so many other people is good for hiding our footsteps, but we can't chat much about the situation. Even if there aren't any enemies here, attracting attention so soon after escape can't be a good idea.

"It must be easier when you don't spend much time outside," England says with a shrug, shifting his legs.

"Must be. That, or all of the—" I locate my fork—"um, extra down time."

England nods, and I turn to my meal. If I managed to sleep for that long, surely I can stomach some of the food I need, too. Given the circumstances, I wouldn't expect I'd be too capable of either, but there's nothing wrong with recovering. I'll have to be back in good condition before I try to break anyone else out, anyway. First things first. I can't ask England to give me more information, and I certainly can't do much else on a moving airplane, so, for now, I'll just build my strength. With terrible airline food, granted, but it's better than nothing.

Hoping I can stomach everything in front of me, I start wolfing down the omelette.


	15. On Arrival

I'm not sure exactly what his rationale is, but America stands outside the baggage claim with a sign that says "Those Two Dudes." Then again, my new passport calls me Hans, so maybe we'd just rather not deal with our human names right now. And we're definitely not going to be using our nation names in public.

I glance over at England, who's struggling to keep his carryon balanced on top of his suitcase. I don't know if he brought any of my things, but I guess it's not important. He's given me sufficient funds to buy some things, and I guess it would be better to wear different clothing than usual. There's always this one outfit if I want something familiar.

We meet up with America, who has apparently removed his glasses as his means of disguise.

"Hey, guys!" He twirls his sign before tucking it under his arm. "Ready to see your Fortress of Solitude for the week?"

"Sounds good to me," England sighs, rubbing his eyes and following when America turns around. I keep pace as we maneuver through the pre-Christmas crowds and eventually make it to the car. A red Jeep Liberty, it could use a wash, but I won't be picky as long as it gets us somewhere safe.

America hops in the driver's seat and buckles himself in as he backs out of his spot. We're not the only ones leaving, but we've escaped to city streets before long.

"How's your flight?" America starts. He's probably the only one who could easily be heard over some screaming Van Halen song on the radio.

England leans back in his seat. "Long. He managed to sleep through nine hours of it, though."

"Nice." America's eyes flash at me in the rearview mirror.

I glance at the green Beetle driving right next to us. "Sorry if I'm being stupid, but is it okay for you to be driving without your glasses on?"

America laughs. "Oh, it's all good, dude! I can see fine without them."

"Ah." I sit back. "Sorry, I'm still a little out of it."

And I've never actually seen him not wearing his glasses. Of course, I pretty much only see him at meetings every once in a while. Same with England. I kind of wish I could stay with nations I know a bit better, but considering two of them have a lot more to worry about...

With my _vast _circle of friends, I don't have many other options, anyway. Japan, whom I still honestly don't know all that well, and Austria, whom I don't really want to live with again. And England, at least, will definitely have a big hand in rescuing Italy and Prussia, so I guess it's not too bad staying with him.

"No worries," England says. "Any sane man would assume someone wears glasses all of the time because he actually needs them."

"I do need these," America protests, sliding his hands around the wheel. Waiting for the stoplight to glow green, he faces the passenger seat. "They make me look cuter."

England snorts, leaning against the car door. "America, you haven't been cute for three hundred years."

America blows him a raspberry before turning his eyes back to the road and driving.

* * *

I'm nearly deaf from the car radio when I see America repeatedly peering at the rearview mirror. Still taking turns as needed, he eventually dials down the volume and exhales.

England frowns at a rearview mirror. "He's following us, isn't he?"

I start to turn towards the back window but stop. If the enemies are following the car this obviously, they may not be sure I'm in it. The last thing I need to do is give them a look at my face.

"Let me go off the course a little," America says, speeding up and taking a right turn that threatens to ram my head against the window. Judging by England's expression, we don't lose the other guys. America speeds up, slows down, and finally signals to turn left at the next four-lane intersection. We have a green light, but so does everyone just across the intersection. Finally a gap in traffic comes, but America throws another glance behind him and misses it. The lights flicker yellow, then red, and the line of cars on our left starts to go in front of us. Before the first pair of tires has quite made it past the white line, America slams on the gas and turns right, eliciting a chorus of honks from every direction. The white Tahoe that was apparently following us finds itself trapped by the stream of cars now behind us.

America looks over his shoulder to assure himself of this.

"What's up!" he shouts victoriously, slamming his palm into the steering wheel for the heck of it.

"Keep driving," England says.

* * *

After taking a winding path for another thirty minutes, America decides we're safe enough to get to our house.

"So, what was that about staying here for one week?" I start.

England glances back at me. "We'll be moving fairly often, just in case. Also, in a week's time, we should have a better idea of our actual target and will move accordingly."

"I have no objections," I say as America turns onto a driveway, the garage door sliding open.

The car's doors click unlocked.

"You guys go ahead inside," America says, tossing England a key. "I'll just back right out and keep going, in case we're still being tracked. If you want a tour, I'll come back in a different car later. England, you got my new cell number, right?"

"I have it," England says, unbuckling himself.

"Sweet." America's hand hovers over the gear stick, but he decides against it. "See you."

England opens his door, and I follow suit, walking into the garage in search of the door. England, unable to pass between the side of the garage and the Jeep's side mirror, yells at America to not run him over and hurries around the backside of the car. He stops before he quite reaches my side.

"Please tell me that's not why." Sighing, he continues around but stops by the driver's window. "America, one of your tail lights is out."

"What? Okay. I'll go change it, then. Stay classy." He salutes and backs out, driving down the street a bit faster than he probably should be.

With a glance back at me, England locates the door and unlocks it, pushing the garage door button as he steps into the house. I watch the last sliver of the outside world disappear before following him in.


	16. Orientation

Thanks to a skylight, the entryway is well-lit the instant we step in. A path in dark wood crooks past the back of a fuzzy, grey sofa and behind a white wall. The living room couch faces a flat-screen television that's balanced on a lattice-doored walnut entertainment center. More white walls are ahead, angled to the right, with a doorless opening that stretches all the way to the high ceiling allowing a glimpse into a very beige kitchen.

"It seems nice enough so far," England says, swiping a finger across the couchside table. "Cleaned up decently."

I follow him down the wooden path, and he flicks on the hallway lights. Rooms branch off from each side, all of the plain wooden doors open. Two bathrooms, two bedrooms, a study. Overall, it's small enough I'm not sure America has ever personally set up residence here, but it's probably better if he hasn't. Less of a trail for the enemies to follow.

Passing straight to the last door, England strolls into the master bedroom. I can only just make out the outline of the bed as England walks over to the blinds. Lifting one of the slats, he peers outside for a while, back and forth, before finally letting the sunlight in. A row of overgrown bushes blocks most of the view; above that, the brick of a neighbor's house stands some ten meters away. It takes a minute of scrutiny to see the wooden fence through the leafless brush.

"No obvious cameras, at least," he says, crossing his arms, "although anyone could stand right outside. I wouldn't expect any better, though. We'll just be careful."

I nod as he shuts the blinds and crosses to the light switch. Considering the other bedroom is on the same side of the hall, I won't be letting any light into my room, either. Shame—I wouldn't mind feeling a little less trapped. But security's the main concern, so I can handle it.

England looks over the room and slides the closet door open. "Good. The suitcases will fit in here easily." He checks out the pine chest-of-drawers and slides his hand over the quilted grey bedspread. Apparently we're clear of anything suspicious, because he shuts off the light and asks me to step aside.

My bedroom's a bit smaller, but otherwise it matches. Nothing draws England's concern there, nor in the other rooms.

"All right," he says, heading back to the living room and glancing at the high-up skylight. "You already have your money and ID. Let's see..." He walks to where he dumped his carryon and rummages through it, setting a few Orwell books on the living room coffee table. "I know America left us some guns in the oven, so go ahead and grab one of those if you want."

"All right." As he continues to look through his bag, I walk into the kitchen, turn on the light, and locate the oven. The door's a terrible shade of green, but it did a good enough job of holding the guns. The bottom rack is occupied with ammo, and a suspiciously large gun takes up most of the top shelf, but there are two Glock 17Cs alongside it, holsters and all. I take one, look it over, and shut the oven door. I'd really like to take out the firearms and store them in a more appropriate place, but there's probably a reason they've been hidden, and I don't want to mess anything up just because I don't have the information. For all I know, it's just to make sure England doesn't try to bake anything, but I've only been directed to take one gun out right now, so that is all I will do.

When I get back to England, he's standing back up.

"Here's your new mobile," he says, holding out a black flip phone. "Just as secure as usual. The others' new numbers are already in it, under our new human names. I'm Geoffrey, America's Clark. The rest you probably won't need, but let me know if it's too hard to tell who's whom."

"Will do." I take the phone from him and open it. One press of the down button brings up the address book, and I poke through it a bit. Some of them are pretty obvious. Judging from "Antoine," "Franz," and "Gilberto," France and Spain just decided to switch names around and translate them. I keep scrolling, but the next number makes me pause.

"Is Gratiano..."

England looks up, his hand back in the carryon. "No, it's Romano. Although we do have a number ready for him under Lodovico. Hopefully you'll get to try that out soon."

I exhale, snapping the phone shut. "Yeah. Will he end up staying under someone else's supervision?"

"We'll see. You and I will probably be in different accommodations by then, so we might all fit." He sighs. "He'll probably need to cling to you for a while to feel safe, anyway," he mutters.

With a nod, I watch my hand slip the phone into my front pocket. Italy's definitely going to have to stay with me. I can't imagine what state he's in—even _imagining_ imagining it fills my throat with bile—but I'm pretty sure he's going to need his security blanket sorely. And lots of pasta. I could try to make some for him if he's not in condition to cook his first night. I'm not as good as him, but he has... well, tried to teach me. He always makes such a freaking mess in the kitchen I don't have any attention to spare for the actual lesson.

That's still just getting started, though. I don't know how he's going to recover. I'm not even completely recovered yet, and I'm not a goofy coward with his heart on his sleeve... And he's still being _tortured_...

"...too, although he'd probably be content to stay with France or Spain. Hello?"

I blink, removing my hand from the cell phone it's trying to crush. "Sorry, what?"

"Your brother," he says. "We may have more arranged by the time we find him and get him out, though."

"Ah—yeah." I exhale. It's almost too traumatic to think of both of the victims at once, but there's really no reason to get too worked up about either. We'll get them out. We'll figure everything out. Nowhere near soon enough, but we will.

I keep repeating that as England gives me the house key.

* * *

Author's Note: Hey, everyone, I'd just like to say thanks for reading, and I hope you continue in that. Thanks especially to WeirdCornChip, SnuffyOfTheWind, theunhappytwins, Obiwanlivesforever, Phoenix halfbreed, Captain Bubbless, EmberFall, AnimeApprentice, Tenebrae Erebus, and the anonymous Nora, ziuziu12, and Guest for reviewing! I always love feedback, even if I'm not taking this fiction as seriously as some of my others.


	17. Hans' Hands

After a period of clothes and grocery shopping, England and I both end up crashing for a nap. Jet lag, or exhaustion from the breakout and work beforehand, or something. I don't care. I just crawl under the warm-enough covers and put my head on the pillow.

* * *

_It looks like angry steam is boiling out of the metal bucket, but it's sucking away much more heat than it's giving out. I strain my neck to keep an eye on it, but once the enemy sets the bucket on the ground, I can't twist enough to see it. The strap across my chest has more give than the metal around my wrists and ankles, but it still permits little movement. That's the point, anyway._

_I lay back flat, glaring up at the enemies encircling me. One comes to my right hand—same side as the smoking bucket—and reaches under the table. With a click, the right wrist cuff opens, and the enemy seizes my freed forearm. I immediately try to shake him off, but he jerks my arm away from the rest of my body so hard I'm surprised he doesn't dislocate anything. The remaining restraints dig into my skin as he angles my arm to let everything beyond the elbow dangle off the table. His grip slackens for a fraction of a second, and I immediately smash my elbow into his face._

_He lets go with a cry, and I snap my wrist back onto the table, feeling around the chest restraint for the buckle. It's all the way on the left side, but—_

_This time the guard grabs my wrist, but, even with his strength, he's not going to stop me. The buckle's right there, _right there,_ and once I can twist I should be able to reach the other wrist releaser. From there, I free my ankles, beat up anyone still standing, and get the heck out of here at last._

_I'm pulling the leather strap through the buckle before I realize the guard has let go. Not ceasing my work, I glance to see what he's up to and receive a smashing blow across the side of my face, too hard to just be a fist. The other side of my head clangs against the table, sending a few injured teeth rattling. I keep tugging at the strap, but the guard's weapon crunches into my free elbow, and my hand spasms enough to make me let go. My right arm's hauled away again, sending flashes of pain running away from my elbow. I jerk my arm again, but it hurts more than it helps as the guard positions my forearm off the side of the table. _

_Before I can make my next effort to escape his grip, an enemy lifts the bucket to meet my hand. A still liquid washes over my fingers only to evaporate into a chilly gas more comfortable than than my elbow, which protests heartily every time I try to move it. The gas barrier only lasts a minute before the liquid comes rushing in again, the temperature so extreme I can't even completely tell if it's hot or cold. Another second in, I'm pretty sure it's cold. My fingertips itch, tingle, freeze, and then there's nothing. The bucket lifts to dip my hand in further, and suddenly my fingers are shot through with pain, a freezing-burning-stabbing-something that tries to send a scream past the back of my throat._

_With a strangled grunt, I finally force my arm up, freeing my hand from the liquid without reducing the pain much. The guard tries to force it back down, but I growl at him and, unable to form a fist, drive the side of my arm into his jaw. But my elbow's too injured to make the strike strong, and the guard pushes my arm away with little effort. Nearly in tears from the burning at my knuckles, I try to reach back towards the buckle to finish undoing it somehow, but the guard takes my forearm and drives my hand into the bucket. _

_I feel the resistance in my wrist as my numb fingers hit the side of the container, but I can't feel how hard the impact is. Only when the shattering noise hits my ears do I jump and reactively check the damage._

_Enemies duck as frozen pieces fly across the room, but I still don't register where they came from until I see my hand. My knuckles are a bit frosty but fine. Each of my fingers ends in a jagged stump, a few cracks snaking up the remains of my index finger. Blood blisters, some broken, dot the waxy, yellowed skin that's starting to turn purple itself. The tissues of every finger end in their own crystalline shards just starting to thaw. _

_The pieces of finger around the room are starting to lose their nitrogen chill, too. A chunk of fingernail that landed just shy of my leg starts to drip water before the blisters on my hand—attached or otherwise—begin to bleed._

_I barely notice the enemy reprimanding the guard behind my screaming._

* * *

All I can manage when my eyes fly open is a gasp, but I'm sitting up repeatedly feeling over my hands within a minute. They're cold. Why are they cold? Why is it so cold in here? It's too freaking cold in here!

Nearly tripping on the sheets, I storm out to the hallway thermostat and jab repeatedly at the up button. I don't even know what temperature it is—I have a feeling this thing is in Fahrenheit, but I am not in the mood to convert it—but I just keep cranking it up until it hits 100. There! Boiling! They're never boiled me, so maybe _that_ won't remind me any any of it!

I step back panting, the heater humming into life, as I repeatedly count all of my fingers. Everything accounted for. Or maybe I was counting without really looking. Why are my hands still cold?

"Germany?"

I jump, shoulder blades ramming against the wall as I land.

"It's England," he says quickly, holding his hands up. "Calm down. Um..." He glances at the tremendously upset covers trailing out of my bedroom. "I take it the nap didn't go well."

"No," I say, voice strained as I continue to grab at my fingers.

He looks at the thermostat just as the display dims. "100? Goodness. Did you mix up your nine-fifths and thirty-twos?" He pokes at the down arrow. "Today might be a bit cold by Phoenix standards, but we don't need to stress the heating system that much."

"Sorry."

"No, no problem." He glances at the time display on the thermostat once he's finished adjusting it. "I was planning on an early supper, but I think we'll wait a bit."

"Yeah." I rub my hands together a moment longer before turning towards the kitchen. "Can we... go get some gloves later?"

"Hm?" He flicks on the hallway light. "Sure."

"Great," I say, walking to the refrigerator and plucking the closest bottle. It's cold to the touch, of course, but at least it's solid, and I'm able to feel it.

I should not be this shaken up. It was just a dream, of one more experiment, just like any other. Or maybe not quite.

The next time they tried that experiment was the first time I cooperated.

* * *

By 17:00, England is driving us to a restaurant. America recommended it, he said. Some sort of steakhouse. I've reached the point where I can eat as much as I need to, so I have no objections.

I do get nervous about us going out in public, but at the same time I want to keep moving. I know I'm not confined to the house, but with all the windows shut it feels like just as much of a cage. And with all of the flashbacks, I might as well be back in that room.

It's not like we're not taking precautions when we go out, either. We have a few license plate changes, the windows are tinted pretty heavily, and there aren't any decorations that would set our car apart from the rest. And we both have our guns.

England parks in a spot near he exit, and we go inside. We don't have reservations, but we're seated immediately. The waiter takes our drink orders and gives us a slab of dark bread with a knife in it. He end up choosing our food before reaching for the loaf.

England digs a little squeeze bottle out of his pocket. "Hand sanitizer?" he offers, squirting a bubbly glob onto his hand.

"Sure," I say, taking off my gloves and setting them to the side of my silverware. He slides the bottle across the table, and I've only gotten a drop out before the smell hits me. The sharp scent of antiseptic—of course—but combined with the meat-smell of the restaurant, it's enough to make me shut the bottle.

"I-I'll just wash my hands," I breathe, sliding the bottle back towards him and getting up. The restrooms aren't hard to locate, and I'm gone before England can respond. I slam into the swinging door and crank up the water on the closest faucet. Thankfully no one else seems to be here as I start scrubbing.

Smell is supposed to be the best sense to bring back memories. More directly wired to the limbic system, or something. Whatever the reason, I'm sure it's true. The cage is trying to swallow me up again. The operating table. The covering with stiff wrinkles from going without cleaning for so long. The ridged leather, a bit frayed at the very edges, clinging across my chest. The cold metal cuffs continuing to drain the heat from my joints long after my skin has chilled to their temperature. The quiet rolling of the wheels under the instrument table. The latex wrinkles disappearing from the glove as it silently picks up the scalpel.

Taking deep breaths, I pull my hands from the water for a second. They still smell like antiseptic. This soap is terrible. I pump more out and keep scrubbing.

Okay. Okay. Just wash it all away. I'm free from that place, and I will not let it keep its hold on me. I have more important things to do than stay paralyzed by fear. Just let it go... Let it go...

The images, the sounds, keep trying to take me, but not right now. One breakdown a day is more than enough. Just let it go. Wash it away, let it go down the drain.

"Er, Hans?"

It takes me a minute before I recognize the name. Turning down the roaring jet of water, I rest my wrists on the edge of the sink and look over at England.

"Yes?"

Frowning, he lets the door shut behind him. "I thought you might want your meal while it's still hot."

"Uh, yeah," I start, frowning bemusedly as I shut off the water. "It's here already?"

As I get a paper towel, he raises an eyebrow. "It's been twenty minutes."

"Twen..." I stop drying my hands but quickly realize I shouldn't. Finishing up, I hurry for the door, which he opens for me.

Twenty... I've been standing there washing my hands for twenty minutes?

And now they're cold...

Okay, just stop. Just stop—thinking. Since I apparently can't _handle __thinking_. How freaking pathetic am I?

I knock my gloves to the other side of the table before hacking at my steak.


	18. Not Alone

I wake up to a blaring alarm piercing through the walls. With a groan, I roll over and try to put my pillow over my head, but the alarm clicks off before I've lifted my head enough.

And that's how I know I'm still out of it. Germany, trying to sleep in. Sheesh.

With a yawn, I make myself sit up, although my back is aching from my poor sleeping conditions. I can't complain, though. I'd rather my spine hurt a little than my psyche.

Now that I think about it, I did dream—but the few cobwebs of it that I can recall involve me running through a marsh with a fat robin chasing me. Not the most traumatic thing my subconscious has dredged up recently.

Kicking away the covers, I get to my feet and try to find my way to the door in the early-morning non-light. Footsteps stomp past outside before I finally wrap my fingers around the doorknob and enter the hallway. The light is already on, so it's not difficult to follow the wood path over to the kitchen.

England's setting up the coffee/tea machine to boil some water as I step in. He goes through the cupboards for wherever he put his tea canister and finds it before he finds me.

"Ah." He sets the container down next to the gurgling machine. "Good morning. Did I wake you?"

I shrug. "The alarm did. But it's not like sleeping in gets anything done."

"I suppose that's true enough." He finds a cup and strainer. "Did you at least sleep well before the clock started screaming?"

"Yeah, actually." I step back as he goes to the refrigerator.

Nodding, he glances back at me before squinting at the rough indents on my shoulder. "What, did you sleep on the carpet?"

"Yeah."

My blunt answer makes him pause, but then he shrugs and continues putting together his breakfast. "Whatever works, huh?"

I nod, sidestepping him to get a few bread rolls from the cupboard. Whatever works. Whatever keeps me out of the cage a while longer. Whatever lets me rest so I can help get the others out sooner.

"So I assume you have plans for the day," I start, locating the butter.

"That is a—" he yawns—"correct assumption. I'll be investigating a few spots of interest, from a distance. If anything seems promising, I'll don a disguise and pry further."

I sigh. "While I stay at home, I assume."

"They know your true face a lot better than mine. Besides, one full night's sleep does not a recovery make." He glances back at me. "You may heal faster than a human, but you know it still takes some time."

I grunt, idly preparing my breakfast as I wait for the coffee maker. He lets it slide, and we end up sitting in the cramped dining room before a conversation starts up again.

"So, are Prussia and Italy the only ones missing now?"

England swallows his sip of tea. "Right now, yes. Russia's been trying to keep touch with everyone, which is slightly difficult when there are so many of us—most of which would rather not answer a call from him—but he'll send out an alarm if he can't find someone. Prussia and Italy are the only ones unaccounted for as of the last update. Brazil went missing for a bit, and Japan actually got captured for about a week, but both of them made it out." He takes another sip, judging my reaction. "They didn't have quite so much security at the time."

"Huh." I chew slowly on a piece of roll. "They both went under the knife?"

"Japan did. Brazil broke out before they got that far but stayed in the complex to get information. Didn't come up with much, but it did help."

"Is that how you found Japan?"

He glances at the daylight starting to peek in between the blinds. "No, but it helped me slip into your cage a bit easier. Japan got out of there without our help."

"He wasn't in the same building I was, was he?" I swig my coffee, swishing the rest in the cup thoughtfully.

"Yes, actually. Apparently they were more concerned about you getting out, which, comparing your and Japan's physiques..." He trails off, lifting his eyebrows and shrugging.

"Hmm." I guess he would be easier to underestimate. Especially the way he goes on and on about his aging—although I doubt he did much complaining on the table. "Before you were even working there?"

He nods. "Before any of us could track him down. They would just leave him on the operating table overnight, and apparently the cuff edges were extremely sharp."

He stops to down another drink of tea, and I frown thoughtfully. "So he..."

"...waited until no one was watching, sawed off his thumb and forefinger, and used the three fingers left to undo the other restraints." He snorts. "Apparently he made it all the way to the entrance without being caught but went back to procure some clothes. Sustained some more injuries from that but still made it to safety afterwards."

"Wow." Chewing on my last bite, I start sweeping the crumbs together.

His door must have been different if he got out of his room undetected. It doesn't sound like he had a bed, so the whole room was probably different, anyway. Even so, it's hard to believe he could bust the door down. Maybe he figured out some sort of unlocking fail-safe on it. I wouldn't be terribly surprised, although I'd hate to think I didn't find any after being in my roomso much longer.

"Yeah." England stands up, pushing his chair in. "So, it wasn't as long, but Japan did go through some of that." He pauses, looking me in the eye. "His new name's Hinata, if you want to call him and chat sometime."

I nod, prodding at the crumbs to make them stick to my finger. "...Isn't Hinata a girl's name?"

England shrugs. "His last name was a girl's name."

Chuckling, I finish off my coffee. "Yeah, I guess so."

With an amused "hmph," England walks over to the kitchen and rinses out his cup. I give my place another sweep before joining him by the sink.

"I'll get dressed and drive out. You can walk somewhere if you get terribly stir-crazy, but I wouldn't advise leaving the neighborhood." He steps out of my way and leans back against the counter. "Call anyone you like, as long as he or she is on your mobile. Everything's secure. The computer's fine as well, although you'll have to connect to a special server or something." He shuffles a hand through his hair. "The instructions are next to the keyboard."

"All right, thanks." I rinse out my coffee mug and shut off the water. "Good luck today."

He pushes himself away from the counter with an exhale. "You, too."

I nod a thanks, and he walks off.


	19. Occupation

For some reason, I didn't expect that relaxing in the house for a day would be so difficult. I don't want to press my luck by trying to sleep again, but just lounging on the couch makes me restless. I have the freedom to walk around a little now, so I might as well use it, right?

But when I ramble about the house, it doesn't help much, either. I catch a warped reflection of my face in a metal bar in the bathroom, and I see my face without the left eye again. I close my eyes as I walk, and then I'm being led to the "showers" again. I straighten out the few wrinkles England left on his bedspread, and the jingle from the bedside table I bump into is the guard getting out the right key to chain my broken body back to the bed frame. No matter where I look, no matter where I _don't_ look, the cage is chasing me.

But I can outrun it. I've caught glimpses, but that's all. No full-fledged flashbacks. I just have to keep myself busy. It would undoubtedly ease my mind further if I could help England track down the others, but what am I going to do? Stow away in the car and pop out to help once we stop somewhere? I'm sure I could be of some use, but I've spent a lot more time shooting than spying. "Yes, I'm on your side, fellow Americans! I love hamburgers!" Yeah, I'm not top-class material in that field.

I'll have to help out eventually, though. Hopefully we'll be past the point I'll need to disguise myself by then. If I can just blast through the doors and carry my brother or Italy out, I will be happy. But hopefully I won't have to carry them...

Exhaling, I go back to dusting the blinds.

I'm sure it'll be some time before we get that far, though. In the meantime... I don't know. I'll lay low and try to keep England from giving himself food poisoning. And try not to go too crazy to be of any use in the mission.

I go over the last set of blinds a few more times, but it's obvious I've done all I can do. I check the study for dumbbells or something, but it just has some empty bookshelves and the computer. I'm not bothering with it. Given my luck with technology, I'll log on the wrong way and beam all our plans straight to the enemies.

I wander a bit more, dodging visions of the cage flying from every corner. Eventually I look myself over in the bathroom mirror—no reflections were this clear back there—and decide to shave. All of the razors still sitting in a grocery bag next to the sink are cheap ones, but I don't really care. The enemies lost interest in my hair regenerating in a very short span, so I shouldn't have any trouble psychologically—and I look like I could really use any kind of shave.

I'm halfway done with my jaw before I nick myself.

* * *

_"Tch."_

_I pull the blade away before blood gets all over it, but that doesn't help the sting. Exhaling, I press on the nick for a second and get back to business. I managed to cut a spot that's able to send a whole dribble of blood down the side of my face, but it's finally starting to seal up. _

_Just a moment later, I somehow slice my chin again. Brow furrowed, I glance at the blade. Dull already. Weird._

_By the time I have sharp blades ready, I can't feel where the cuts were. Wiping off the smudges of blood, I glance at the bathroom clock and start mowing down the other side of my face._

_I barely even notice the blur behind me before a silenced gun sends hot metal into my back. Slamming forward into the counter, I drop the razor, and it clatters to a stop at the bottom of the sink. The mirror a spiderweb now, I spin to face my attacker, but I can already tell I'm going down. Steadying myself against the counter, I stumble out of the bathroom in pursuit, but I can't locate the shooter until he puts a bullet in my heart._

* * *

At some point I realize the water is running and shakily reach to turn it off. Blood's all over the razor's blades now, but they're still sharp. I just wasn't paying attention. No foul play.

Of course, it still seems a bit odd that they would intentionally dull my razor, but, if they were double-checking my regeneration abilities before they kidnapped me the easiest way, I can't think of a more discreet method. And seeing as they showed up right after it happened... It's just a theory, but you have to admit that that warrants suspicion.

I don't know how they got information on me before that. Maybe veterans, maybe others who watched me heal from mundane accidents. I'm sure the enemies must have planted some cameras in my house just because I would know if someone stood there watching me shave, but that hardly clues me in to much else. It's already obvious they got into my house once, so why not twice? More? Were they already gathering information on the others before they bagged me? How many other places are bugged? Just how much of a network do these people have?

Staring at the mirror, I check behind me before making myself turn back to the task at hand.

There's no telling just yet. I can ask for more info when England comes back—or I guess I can phone someone else—but, just going from my experience, I hardly know anything other than what happened when I was shaving that morning.

That's what I was doing they took me away, but I'm back outside now. Full-circle. I'm not back at home, of course, and I don't know how long it's going to stay that way, but I'm out.

I'm out. Act like it already.

I'm not sure whether I'm addressing myself or just my pulse, but I manage to clean up without imagining any other attackers sneaking up behind me.


	20. Call the Shots

The ringing starts right when I'm ducking under a doorway. I've already hit my head and surveyed the area for anything non-friendly before I feel the vibration in my pocket. Checking one more time for anyone watching, I open up the cell phone. Call from Fyodor. Wonder who that could be.

"Hello?"

"Hello!" For some reason I feel like Russia is waving. "This is, uh, Hans, right?"

Rubbing my head, I walk over to the couch and sit. "Yeah. Is something up?"

"Oh, no, I'm just checking on everyone." He yawns. "So are you doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. You?"

"I'm doing very well, thank you!" He waits a second for a response. "I guess I'll keep checking on the others—or was there anything you'd want to talk about?"

"Uh—" I look around the room—"go ahead, I guess. Let me know if anyone stops answering."

"Oh, okay." Apparently he was expecting me to talk about something with him. But what? My experience over there? That's hardly a good dinner conversation—although I have a feeling he of all people would be able to listen without flinching—and what time is it over in Moscow, anyway? Or is he staying in some other country, too?

"Hey," I start before he can say goodbye. "Are, uh, Geoffrey and I the only ones outside our houses right now?"

"Hm?" His voice perks up again. "Oh, no. A lot of us are staying elsewhere. I'm still in one of my houses, but not at one of the big cities."

"Huh."

"Was there anyone in particular you were wondering about? I can't put together a list off the top of my head, but I could easily find out."

"No, that won't be necessary. I was just wondering."

"Okay." He pauses. "Anything else?"

I think for a moment. There are so many things I don't know that I can't single one question out. "No, uh... Keep an eye out for bugs, all right? I'm pretty sure they had some in my house in the beginning."

"Oh, yeah, we found those. Don't worry; I've been keeping careful watch where I am, and the others ought to be doing the same."

"Great." I exhale. "So you all investigated my house, then?"

"Well, I wasn't there," he starts. "I just had the important parts relayed to me."

I lean back on the couch. "What were the important parts?"

"The bugs, and..." He pops his lips. "The leafed-through papers and pictures, and Romano's story."

I wait, but he doesn't add anything else. "What documents were leafed through?"

"Well, all kinds of things were out of place, and we don't have the video to tell us what of it they actually read. But there were some observation diaries, all of the pictures on your office-desk-thingy, a few government documents..." He inhales. "That's all I remember. I could find a list, if you want to figure out if anything's missing."

"Ah, no, I don't think I'd remember. I doubt any papers were their goal, anyway."

"Okay. Let me know if you change your mind." He laughs a little. "Anyone other than you, and we'd probably have no idea which papers had been touched."

"Yeah, yeah." I pause. "Who was it that found the bugs? Could the enemies have footage of that?"

"I guess they probably would have footage. Um, I think it was America and Japan who did the first investigation."

And they caught Japan a while after that. And America has a terrible disguise. I don't doubt he'd be able to defend himself, but it's a lot harder when all the attackers have to do is kill him—short-distance or long. If they can set up bugs without Prussia or me noticing, they could probably slip some poison into his Coke without being detected. Maybe I ought to call him.

Or not be so paranoid. It's already been months, and he's going to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. Hopefully. I never know with airheads like him.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

I switch the phone to my other side so my sweaty right hand won't drop it. "Uh, yeah, sorry. Was there anything else?"

"Only if you have more questions." He stifles a yawn.

"No, I think I'm all right. Thanks for checking in on me."

"No problem! Call back whenever you want. If the line's busy, try a minute later."

"Will do." I wait. "Bye."

"Bye."

I hang up, watching the screen inform me of the call time and blink out. We didn't chat as long as I thought we did. It's still only early afternoon, and I've already had too many brushes with flashbacks ready to strike.

Maybe I could call up a few more people today.


	21. Thirsty

After a long day of pestering other nations, trying not to get shot while baking a cake, checking windows and corners for surveillance, and doing every exercise but pushups, I get a call from England. Apparently one spot in Scottsdale was promising enough to warrant a stakeout. Since my enemies worked at any and all hours, I could see there being some coming and going wherever they have Italy. England would know better than me.

"Good luck."

"Thanks." He hangs up without any more of a goodbye.

Exhaling, I put up my phone and put together a sandwich for supper. Good thing we stocked up on food. And beer. I've been imbibing a record number today just to keep from seeing cameras in the corner of my eye no matter where I look.

Okay, maybe not a record number. More than usual, though.

I get through my meal pretty quickly and am left to stagger around the house. There's really no point in staying up. I've trained myself over a long and very arduous period of practice to resist the effects of alcohol in some pretty astounding amounts—just in case someone tries to use it to get information out of me, or something; you know—but I want to be dumbed down right now. Relax, go to bed, hope like heck England doesn't get back and turn his alarm clock on to give me more of a headache in the morning.

On some level, I'm still ashamed. I should be able to calm myself down without downgrading a fine beverage to nothing more than a head-number. Maybe tomorrow.

Tugging my covers off the bed, I collapse onto the floor and try to get some sleep.

* * *

___They pull the pin and run. _

___I try to make it to the door before they make it out of this room, but I'm too heavily shackled to make much progress. Shouting doesn't do any good; I don't think they can even hear me through what must be a good layer or two of blast-proof walls._

___Why would they let me out, anyway? "Pretty please" isn't going to get me anywhere. If I can just get to the door quickly enough, I might be able to bust it open. Of course, even if it isn't the monster of a door from my usual room, it won't be flimsy if they're planning to splatter pieces of me all over one side of it._

___I'd really like to avoid being blown up. It's not a pleasant experience. Even if I do die, even if something rips through my brainstem and stops it all just about immediately, it's never quite as quick as it seems it should be. Adrenaline will slow things down whether that's a good idea or not._

___I drag my chains to the door at last, but it's been too long already. Maybe the grenade is a dud. Maybe they're just trying to see if I'll panic, what my brainwaves do, or something. Exploding is terrible, believe me, but you're going to have to be more creative than that if you want to make me panic._

___Still, I can't help but cast a glance back at the insidious lump of metal before facing the door. There's no handle on this side, nor are there hinges. Nothing to damage in an explosion. Nothing to work with._

___I catch myself looking back at the grenade. Why? Is keeping an eye on it going to keep it from doing its job?_

___Making myself turn back to the task at hand, I drag my hands over the door's surface, in case there's some way to open the door in an emergency, hidden behind a protective panel. No luck. I try to get between the door and the jamb, or the door and the threshold, but I can't wedge my sausage-fingers far enough to find any purchase. Trying to force a few links of my chains in the same thin gaps doesn't do any more good._

___I can't reach the ceiling lights no matter how hard I jump, and my shoes don't have enough grip on the metal walls._

___I turn to the not-quite-hidden camera next, with one more glance at the grenade. No signs of life from the thing. It's making me a little nervous, but I can't say I mind still being in one piece._

___There's a square of thick glass in front of the lens. I pry at its edges, but I don't even cut my fingers. Realizing how stupid it is, I throw my chains against it, but that doesn't work, either._

___Maybe if I can obstruct their view, it'll mess up the experiment to the point they have to step in and interfere. Why would they put a camera if they don't want to watch? Although I'm not sure how to mess it up. Smear sweat on the glass? It's pretty much all I have. I could try to tear my sleeves and put the cloth over the lens, but I have no way to make it stick. I prod the wall with a sharp part of my manacles, but it only leaves a pale scratch that is easily wiped away. No pinning the cloth to the wall, then. The best I can do is just put my back to the glass._

___I go ahead with that, but no enemy comes running in to correct things. Of course they're going to wait a while with a live grenade in the room. But I'm in no rush. These shackles are heavy, and I keep trying to slide down the wall, but I can definitely handle that._

___Time passes. Still no one enters. Do they think as much as opening the door will set off the explosives? I've already been banging on the walls with no ill effects. Maybe they're just trying to get me to worry. At this point, my anxiety is pretty much gone. There's always a chance that thing could go off, but it's becoming less of a credible threat every minute._

___There are no clocks in the room, nor do I have a watch or phone. I still know a heck of a lot of time passes without anyone making a move to come in. What, do they want me to defuse the thing? My hands are chained much too close together, and I'm much better at throwing those things than picking them apart. I maybe have plenty of experience with grenades where they shouldn't be, but... When _someone_ is standing there with a grenade in his mouth, it's a heck of a lot safer to just hurl the thing across the area._

_It's a few minutes before sweat makes my hands slip from the metal wall. I'm certainly not that nervous. Is it getting warmer in here? Is that how they plan to set off the grenade? I guess they don't care what method as long as none of them get hurt. And as long as I do._

_There's still no detonation, and after a while longer I think I'm the only thing heating up, from all my layers of clothing._

_More time passes. I nearly break my cheekbone with chains when I reach up to wipe my forehead. I fumble with my jacket buttons, but with all the restraints I can't tug enough off to do much good. My mouth starts to dry up, and the chains slowly get heavier. My pulse seems to be emanating from my forehead before it clicks._

_The grenade wasn't supposed to go off with the pin, or the heat. No one's coming to disarm it or get me out. I'm supposed to go kick the explosive myself. That, or let myself die from thirst, much more slowly._

_So it is psychological. See how much I can handle. If they honestly think I'm going to crack, they'll be sorely disappointed._

_Eventually I have to sit down. I still ought to be the camera's blind spot here, so it doesn't really matter. My headache worsens to hangover levels. My eyes refuse to stay open, but I catch little sleep. I'm more exhausted when I wake up, and somehow that irritates me enough to thump a fist back against the wall. Moving the chains that much makes my arms sore._

_I try to stand to relieve myself in some other corner of the room, but I nearly pass out upon standing. I still manage. Thankfully there aren't that many chains around my trunk._

_The stench is still terrible from the other side of the room, and my sweat-soaked garments don't help. I scrabble at the camera glass, but I can't keep my arms up for long. I try to sleep more. I have no idea how long, but I'm still sluggish when my eyes open._

_I wish I knew how much time was passing. Why can't they allow me that much? They can't spare one cheap clock? You jerks aren't getting your explosion, anyway! Throw me a line! Geez, I'm sleepy..._

_I think I lose consciousness a few times without meaning to. I'm so tired I can't tell the difference. I've given up on getting out. Have the chains been attached to the floor now? Some magnets or something? I bet the enemies would do that. They can't even leave me alone long enough to die in peace._

_Random tingling sensations come and go. My limbs will hardly move at my command, but they have no objections to cramping or seizing. I eventually stop sweating, which makes it a bit easier to sleep once my clothes are dried out, too. That is, if my headache would back down. Stupid thing. Maybe if my heartbeat would get down to a manageable level, it'd hurt less, but I can't even slow my breathing._

_At one point, I bash my head against the ground in a short-lived seizure. I think my skull's going to explode. Why wouldn't it? Maybe that was the plan all along—the grenade's just to get my mind in the right place, and the real explosives are inside me. You guys are taking your time setting them off, gosh... Why can't you just let me die? Or sleep. I could use some sleep right now._

_When I wake up, the room is oddly dim. I don't want to keep my eyes open. It hurts. Along with my head and my throat and everything. I need a drink. Is there any beer in here? Maybe that thing over there is something..._

_I try to shuffle that way, but my chains are still stuck to the ground. Eh, forget it. I'm going to die, anyway. I don't want to die. My tongue is so dry it hurts. Am I dead yet? Where's the beer? I'm tired. I want this to stop already. The enemies are jerks. I think I'm about to pass out. What was that flash of light? Was that just me? Is the grenade still here? I feel kind of hot. I'm going to sleep now. Or not. What was I just thinking?_

_The air feels like knives against my tongue and throat. And they keep coming and coming because I'm breathing so fast. My lips are nearly caked in blood from splitting all the time. How long have I been in here? Am I dead yet? My skin hurts. It's shriveled up in a weird way. I'm still tired. My heart's beating too fast. I think I'm going to throw up. Can I still throw up?_

_Is that beer still there? Or was it in the first place? My head's going to explode. I swear, my head is... going to..._

* * *

I wake up sweating.

I. I. I am Germany. Not... Not...

Shoving the few covers still on me out of the way, I get up and, before I go for a glass of water, find a mirror. Of course I see me. That shouldn't be surprising, and by now it seems silly that I had to check.

But for the entirety of that dream I was Prussia.

Tap water shoots into the glass hard enough to bubble up. In the dark I'm not even sure how full the cup is before I put it to my lips for a drink.

Flashback dream, no doubt about it. I went through that. Finally lost consciousness and died at the end. It wasn't the worst of the experiments. But reliving it with the unmistakable dream identity of my brother... Is he going through that at this moment? Is that why...?

That—that's a foolish thought. Although, somehow, seeing afterimages in the dark...

I flick on the lights before filling up the glass again and shutting off the water. I might as well wake up. It's—I have to blink a few times before I can clearly see the oven clock—only 3:27, but I won't be falling asleep soon, anyway.

Of all the mornings to have a bad hangover...

Closing my eyes, I try not to gulp the water too fast.

Okay. You're awake now. Quit trying to live in the nightmare.

Ha! These days, I don't have to try.


	22. Something Has Happened

I try to focus on the sudoku puzzle in front of me, but I can't keep myself from repeatedly checking on the phone and the door. I'm not completely sure whether I think England or an enemy is going to barge in on me, but either would at least break the solitude.

Normally I like my alone time. Normally I'm also able to do something productive in my alone time. Normally I don't need anyone to distract me from the memories.

I hold out a while longer before flipping open the phone to figure out whom some of the new names correspond to. It's 13:40. It feels like it's been much longer, but at the same time I'm wondering why England hasn't come back yet. Maybe he's already slipped into the "research" place beyond the point he could call me. He'll still be back by evening, though, right?

Pacing, I start poking through the names. I try to make some educated guesses so I don't wake anyone in too far away a time zone, but I don't have the faintest idea for some of these. Then again, I didn't have every single nation's human name memorized in the first place, just the ones I interact with oh so often.

I'm in the middle of confirming that Austria is now Johann when I get an incoming call. Apologizing to Austria, I try to switch but just end up hanging up on both calls. With a sigh, I prod at the buttons looking for the recent calls, but Russia calls me back first.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Hans, right?" he starts quickly.

"Yeah. Was that you a second ago? Sorry—"

"No problem," he interrupts, swallowing. "I just needed to ask if you'd seen or heard from England in the past few hours."

"Uh—" my heartbeat picks up a bit—"no. I haven't." I peek through the blinds by the front door, but no one's there. "Why?"

"I just dialed him, and someone else picked up."

Stiffly I walk back to the couch and sit at the edge. "Who? What did he sound like? What did he say?"

"Um, he had an American accent. When I asked if he was Geoffrey, he just said, 'Who's this?' By then I had heard enough to know he wasn't England, so I hung up."

"Okay." Leaning forward with an elbow on my knee, I look at my dim reflection in the television screen.

"We do know what location England was last observing, though, so we're going to move it to the top of our list."

"And what about England?"

"I still can't say whether he's captured or just undercover, but he can handle a little bit of trouble on his own either way. We'll make a plan, wait another day or two for contact, and then go in if he hasn't gotten back to us."

"All right." I take a deep breath, shifting my legs. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

He thinks for a second. "Well, you definitely need to stay where you are—if he's fine, just without his phone, he'll end up back where you are. If he is in danger... I don't know. Just be careful, and I'll get back to you, 'kay?"

"Yeah. That sounds good, I guess."

"Okay. I'll keep spreading the word. See you later!" Only Russia could sound cheerful after telling me someone's probably being tortured.

"Bye." I snap the phone shut and drop it on the cushion next to me.

England is missing. I did expect him to be gone overnight, but I do think I should have heard back from him by now.

So, what exactly do we know? Someone else had England's phone. It could be a stranger who found it in the grass, or someone on the enemies' side who took it from him after capture. I think it's safe to assume Russia—or anyone—could recognize America's voice, so England didn't hand it off to him before slipping inside the complex. He would have let someone know to keep all our alarms from going off, anyway.

It should be fair to conclude that England did not voluntarily give up his phone, then. Either he lost it, or it was taken from him. If he lost the phone, he would probably put off his investigation for a few hours to let me know and get another one. We may not want to make things easier for the enemy trackers by getting all of the nations together, but it's a worse idea to be on one's own. Without anyone by his side or a way to contact us, England would be as good as alone, and he's not dumb enough to let that happen so easily.

So, someone probably took his phone. Not just a pickpocket—if that were the case, England would act as if he lost it. He would have to be somehow incapacitated. There's some chance he saw an opportunity to get into the complex before he had time to tell us. Even if that is the case, his lack of a cell phone afterwards would imply he got caught. That, or he managed to lose a phone with a lot of nations' contact information among a crowd of enemies. Granted, everyone makes mistakes, so I couldn't conclusively rule that out, but I have to admit it just sounds like wishful thinking.

That leads me to what seems like the most sensible possibility. England was captured—I have no reason to believe by anyone other than the enemies—and his phone was taken. To avoid drumming up suspicion, no one tried to send a call, but the enemies did answer in hopes of gleaning some information about the rest of us from someone who didn't wait for a "Hello?". I'm sure precautions have been taken so that no one can accurately trace our calls, and Russia hung up before he could say anything compromising, so it sounds like the enemies failed there.

Even if the rest of us are playing it safe, England has still been taken. They're probably doing their best to break him right now.

But we're making a plan. We have a great estimate of his last whereabouts, and it hasn't been too long since we lost track of him. I'm sure we can find the place and get him out. And it's probably the same place they're keeping Italy, right? Maybe Prussia's there, too, for all I know. This could all work out really well.

Or it's all a trap, the enemies have already shipped England to another country for proper experimentation, and Italy was never in this area in the first place. But thinking like that isn't going to do me any good until it's proven true. Unless that happens, all I need to do is assume everything is still within reach and play whatever part I need to in order to get them out.

Exhaling, I turn on the television and try to pay attention until further instructions arrive.


	23. A Little Fresh Air

I am going to lose my mind if I stay in here one more minute.

I do not consider myself a claustrophobic. With my size, that would be a particularly unfortunate condition. But I'm already feeling terribly cooped up in this house. The couch may be comfortable, the temperature fine, my clothes clean, but somehow it still feels too much like the cage. I don't know if it's the hum of the fluorescent lights in the kitchen, or maybe all the shining metal bars that hold my reflection like the operating table and bed frame did.

In all honesty, the main culprit is probably just me and my flashbacks. The added stress of another of us missing, without any definite hope of a contribution I can make, doesn't help.

And that's how I find myself stepping out the front door at 16:50. It isn't by any means a quick process. After peeking through the blinds on several different levels, I make sure my gun is accessible and in condition to fire. I look through the blinds on the other side of the door, but they reveal little besides withered hedges and dimming sunlight. Upon unlocking the deadbolt rather loudly, I step out of the way for a while. No one shoots through the door or glass beside it. I turn the doorknob but go through the same ritual. Still no attackers. Forearm twitching a bit, I slide the door open just a little. A trill from the home alarm makes me jump and let go, but it stops short of sounding any sirens.

Exhaling, I look over the narrow side of the door to make sure there aren't any trap wires attached, check the outside from both sets of blinds, and ease the door open. I'm sure the screeching wouldn't be quite so terrible if I opened this like any sane being would. Oh, well. It's at least not too loud.

After another minute of waiting behind the door, I realize I'm giving everyone a clear view into the interior of my living place. Hastily, I step into the entryway and survey the area ahead, but no one's out in the open. It takes me another minute of deep breaths before I walk over the threshold, and, double-checking my keys, shut the door behind me.

The winter sun makes all of the shadows stark and the white garage doors blinding, but the temperature's pretty darn nice for a December day. Only one pathetic excuse for a cloud floats across the sky. The air still smells faintly of exhaust from an invisible car whose engine roars are getting fainter. Across the street, little sprinkler heads attempt to revive the grass. The ringing of a basketball pounding into the pavement echoes from a few houses farther down.

Nothing about it seems quite right. My brother, my best friend, and my rescuer are all being tortured right now, and the weather's great, and everyone is going about their daily lives with the usual cheer or boredom. All of them clueless.

Yet there's no reason for them to know about any of this, or react to it. They'd never believe it, anyway. Hey, you, kid with the basketball. I have a couple of friends who are representations of nations, and they're all being repeatedly tortured and killed right now by a bunch of secretive "scientists." Care to lend a hand? I feel crazy enough without asking, thanks.

Now that I think about it, I guess that's why we haven't been breaking down all the doors to help the nations escape. If anyone finds out, how do we explain? Say nothing's going on? Blame it on terrorists? We'd be whipping news-watchers into a medley of conspiracy frenzies.

And we're hardly going to tell the truth. We can prove what we are and how we regenerate, but not sounding like lunatics has never been a top priority. We'd probably just broadcast our status to more crazies who want to tear us apart. Not to mention anyone who might be into government secrets or starting a rebellion. No, we just need to stay a bunch of unbelievable, impossible dots that the average radar will never pick up.

Taking a deep breath of fresh air, I look around a bit more before stepping off the porch onto the sidewalk. A little more sunlight hits me, so I stand for a while, although the _wup-wup-wup_ of helicopter overhead sends me back under the overhang. The sound fades eventually, and I have yet to be sniped, so I carefully step forward again. I've only re-inspected the houses to my right before a slamming storm door makes me jump. Someone across the street, one house to the left, is walking down to his driveway. I can't see any weapons on him, and he doesn't seem to have taken any notice of me. Of course, I'm a person he's never seen, standing stiffly in the middle of my sidewalk, squinting at every shadow in the neighborhood. I'm the one who should be rousing suspicion.

I'm ready to step back inside, where no one should be able to see me, but, at the same time, I wouldn't mind a little more sunshine on my skin. No need to put myself in another cage, right? England said it was fine to walk around the neighborhood, let alone to the porch.

Of course, England got captured.

I linger a moment longer, still compulsively looking over everything for threats, before finally stepping back inside and locking the door.


	24. Restless

_You'd think I'd be used to broken bones by now. Even under non-research circumstances, I'll get a few crushed ribs or snapped arms every once in a while. Then, just today, I've already had ten breaks. Yet it still hurts every time._

_Oh, they've done worse to me here. This isn't such a big deal. It's definitely better than—_

_A soft crack like ice popping sends a jolt up and down my arm, and I choke on my own voicebox trying not to shout. The point of impact throbs as blood starts to flow from the injured vessels. The manageably warm metal that had been putting extra strain below my left elbow recedes, leaving my arm to fall back onto the chill of the operating table. The enemies take a few notes as I try to summon the adrenaline level I maintained for the last couple of breaks. It's unfortunately not much of a willpower issue, so I just focus on taking deep breaths._

_The enemies do a little more cutting to get a better view of the bone, since my other tissues insist on regenerating just as well. Inconvenient, huh? If I could make it block their sight of the bone faster, I would, regardless of the extra pain. I doubt they'd give up on this bone-breaking business, but I'd still like to cause them _some_ kind of trouble._

_I don't know why they can't just do a few x-rays. Too much trouble to put me in front of the equipment? Too much fun to watch it heal before their eyes? Too long a process to not get a blurry picture? How long do x-rays take, anyway? I've never had one done, considering I'll heal fine without even worrying about aligning the pieces by hand. By the time I could get in to see the doctor, the break would be healed, anyway. _

_I've barely registered the lifting of my other elbow before they snap it, too. It's all I can do to grind my teeth and growl in pain._

_Two arms at the same time now, huh? Seeing if another break will affect the regeneration speed, I guess. Will it? Cuts heal more slowly when accompanied. I don't see why it would be different for bones. They already broke two bones in the same arm, too. They just have to check everything, I guess._

_Well, they don't have to and by no means ought to check everything, but they will. I'm their little lab rat, good for infinite experiments, and they're not about to let the tiniest bit of research slip from their fingers._

_It's another hour before everything's back in place. At least, that's how I'm interpreting the "1:07:30" I glimpse in one of the notebooks. It could be the time. I have no way to tell. Most of the time I'm in no condition to care. Right now I wouldn't mind knowing._

_The enemy relays the numbers in his book to his companions, and after another minute they go back and break my left forearm again. I narrowly avoid biting off the tip of my tongue as they adjust the stressor a bit and then snap the other bone there. Trying to reduce the coppery taste in my mouth, I press my tongue up against my palate as they walk over to my other side. My pulse throbs against the warm metal as they position my right arm, and then the third bone goes. __Cold sweat running down into my ears, I watch the white flickers in my vision abruptly appear and fade. Are they going to break the last bone standing, too? Do I even care at this point?_

___Trying my best to control my breathing, I just watch the enemy adjust my little elbow pedestal. He steps aside, the largest of the experimenters takes his place, and then the hammer plummets towards me again._

* * *

My eyes open, but it's too dark to get my bearings. The bumpy carpet beneath me helps, and after tentatively moving my arms I relax. Only a dream. Just keep breathing.

After a while I'm ready to go back to sleep, but I check my phone just in case. Nothing right now.

Exhaling, I rub my forearms and lie back down. But I'd hate to sleep through an important call, or get into another flashback nightmare. On the other hand, I ought to get some sort of rest before I'm thrust into the heat of battle here. I've been getting little enough sleep for too long already, and coffee can't fix everything.

Anxiety. Exhaustion. Which is going to win out tonight?

Pulling up the covers, I try to at least keep my eyes closed for a while.


	25. Step Up

Three more days of utter pointlessness pass before Russia finally has something to tell me.

"Good news!" he chimes. "The facility's custodian is about to have an accident."

"Yeah?" I lean against the kitchen counter. "In a discreet way?"

"Of course. It shouldn't be too hard to arrange." It sounds like this is his favorite part in all of this. "It would probably be best if we can just break his arms or something, but we'll see what happens."

I shift my shoulders. "All right. So am I helping with the accident or taking his place?"

"Um... It might be easier for you to just help with the accident."

I pause. "Do you already have someone planning to step in as custodian?"

"Not in particular. If you'd rather try that, I could talk to nations and see if we can arrange something."

Exhaling, I drum my fingers on the edge of the counter. What do I want to do? Help the effort, first and foremost, but... Given a chance to be right in the middle of things, in the same place as Italy, on the front lines of breaking him and the others out... How could I not take it? By no means do I expect it to be easy, but taking the easy route has not exactly been helpful to me recently. It's going to be a high-stress situation for an already stressed-out nation, but I'll take it. It might be good for me. Nothing like pressure from all sides to keep me from falling apart.

"I want to be the new custodian," I say.

"Okay! I'll let the others know."

"I can call them myself," I offer, "if you'd rather keep checking on the rest of us, or work on getting the current custodian out of the way."

"Sure. America's basically in charge of that stuff, so ask him about it."

"Okay. He's Clark now, right?"

"Da."

"All right, thanks. Talk to you later."

"Bye!"

* * *

My name is now Otto Bocker. I was born on 21 August twenty years ago and moved to America two years ago on June 30 without my parents, Anna and Max.

That's only the beginning. It's a lot easier to be Hans the antisocial than someone trying to get a job at an extremely secretive experimentation. I could probably take a whole year class on this Otto guy, and at this point it feels like I need to. But it's only one more day before I go into my interview. I'd better get this all down before then.

I do wish I could have been given more time with this, but I have no right to complain. I chose this, and I am going to stick with it. Besides, if it's difficult to memorize all of this fluently in a short period of time, it will look that much better to those interviewing me if I get it right.

I'm looking over my credentials on flash cards when a rap on the door stops me mid-pace. Putting away my notes, I creep towards the door and check the peephole. The visitor's face is turned away, but I recognize the ribbon in her hair. I still wait for a good view of her face before I unlock the deadbolt.

"Good morning," Belgium says, pulling the storm door open once it's unlocked.

"Uh, morning." I step out of her way, eyeing the box under her arm.

"Your mask is in," she announces, following me into the living room and sitting on the couch. With the box on her lap, she starts to pull at the lid.

"Great." I sit on the other end of the couch, gripping my knees. Belgium pulls the lid away, revealing a plastic-wrapped lumpy mass of something my skin color.

"It's pretty minimal," she says, pulling out one of the clear plastic covers, "so it shouldn't be too difficult to apply. This box is enough for a week, although we'll be getting more to you soon." Retrieving a bottle of face glue, she sets the rest of the box on the coffee table and stands up. "Do you have a good mirror in here somewhere? I'll teach you how to put it on properly."

"There's only the bathroom mirror," I say, getting up and leading the way. There's a bit of setup involved before I find myself sitting somewhat comfortably in front of the mirror.

"Okay," Belgium starts, pulling out one floppy slab of latex and positioning it. "Pay attention."

I try to do just that, but we've hardly made any progress before she starts chatting.

"So, how have you been doing?"

I shift my legs. "Fine."

Before I can turn the question back on her, she says, "As in, totally fine, or fine but not great, or fine, so leave me alone?"

"Uh..." I swallow. Is Belgium really the only one who could do this? Couldn't America have at least sent someone of the male persuasion so I can actually talk to them? Heck, why can't be do it himself? He's obsessed with everything involved with making movies, and this would be in that category, right? Not that he's a particularly relaxing guy to be around, but...

"Fine but not great." I try not to fidget as she applies some glue to my face. It feels thick and sticky, like smearing syrup on my cheeks. But at least half of my discomfort right now is not physical, so I can't say if I'm exaggerating.

She double-checks the positioning of one slab and presses it onto my face. It smells like surgical gloves.

"I figured," she says, going over the edges of the material and stepping back to let me see the mirror better. "Hey—what's wrong? It doesn't hurt, does it?"

I realize I'm holding my armrests with a death grip and try to relax. "No."

Belgium nods, unwrapping the next piece. "So, you've been fine but not great. Nothing unusual about that. Anyone would need time to recover." She glances at me sideways. "You must have been making some sort of progress to want this job, though, right?"

"Yeah." I take slower breaths so the smell isn't as obtrusive.

I really think I should be able to handle this. I'm still not having entirely restful nights or relaxing days, but I haven't had a waking flashback in a while, and I'm not freaking out quite so much after the nightmares. Everything about this situation may be nerve-wracking, but at least some of the sting from my time on the table is fading.

Belgium puts latex over the bridge of my nose before laughing. "Do you just not talk if you're not in a meeting?"

"No. I mean, I can talk." Looking off to the side as if the shower curtain has become particularly interesting, I open my mouth again but can't find anything else to say. Briefly I try to imagine I'm not talking to a female, but when her face is right next to mine and she smells of poppies, it's a lost cause. In the end I just shut my mouth and look back at the mirror.

Already I look nearly unrecognizable. I'll have to do something with my hair, but, as far as my covered face goes, it would take a heck of a lot of scrutiny to even get a sense of déjà vu. And since they've given me more reasons to stay far away than come back, they shouldn't be expecting me. My accent might be some trouble, but I can change that a bit. I'm starting to believe I am never going to speak in an American accent, but I can at least switch to a different German accent without trouble. Hopefully they'll be able to tell the difference.

Trying to ignore the latex smell, I pay careful attention as Otto's features fall into place.


	26. Act the Part

The interview takes place in a perfectly normal office building that is apparently some distance from the actual experimentation center. I somehow manage to drive there myself in a pale green Beetle. Not the most inconspicuous mode of transport, but apparently that's the point. The most important thing is that I don't look like I'm hiding anything. If any suspicions arise, I could jeopardize the entire plan. They'll figure out I'm Germany if they try—my disguise may be seamless, but I can't hide everything. I have a new face and new fingerprints, neither of which smells so much like latex anymore, but if they try to get a tongue-print, or a skull x-ray they could easily match me with anything they've taken before. They could inflict some injury on me, and I can't just will myself not to heal.

At the same time, they won't suspect it's me if I don't give them reason to. I went through some serious agony under their supervision, and I ought to be hiding from them as well as I can. They know I won't go down easily, but they ought to know I have a little sense in me, too.

Doing this really is crazy. There are others vying for this undercover job, and I'm one of the poorest choices among them. But none of them have sworn to protect Italy. None of them are Prussia's brother. I have a responsibility towards both of them—and, after England broke me out, some to him, too. I may only be used to rescuing Italy, but I will gladly thrust myself back into the thick of things for all of them.

But it's for me, too. Anything to actually help the front instead of struggling not to lose any more of my mind sitting in the house.

A man who introduces himself as Andrew, my future supervisor if I get the job, meets me in the lobby. I briefly wonder if his name is an alias, too, before I shake his hand and follow him into a plain interview room. Two chairs, one desk with his computer and nameplate among other office necessities. Lowering myself into the seat he offers me, I hope any shakiness on my part can be chalked down to commonplace interview jitters.

"First of all, welcome to the research center, Mr. Bocker," he says, adjusting the glasses that are a bit more thick-rimmed than mine. "I understand you're here to apply for the custodial job."

"Yes," I say quietly, nodding. "That is correct."

"And you understand this may only be a temporary replacement job."

"I understand."

"All right," he responds with a smile, clicking a pen that hovers over his partially-obscured notepad. "Loosen up a little, and we'll get this interview started."

* * *

I haven't been through many job interviews. I'm almost always just working with the government or in the army, and, given my status, it's not too difficult to get accepted there. Still, I get the feeling most of them are shorter than this.

Is he trying to get me to crack? Is he just waiting for my usual accent to slip, or my mask to start peeling from my face? Nothing seems particularly odd for an interview, but that only makes it more unsettling. Does Andrew even know what actually goes on in those research rooms? If not, how crazed does he have to be to put on such a casual, friendly front?

The longer it goes on, the more I feel he may be on to me. He doesn't ask anything specific about my tortures or anything, but I'm signing up to be a _janitor_, maybe for no more than a few weeks until the old guy is healed up. How many questions could Andrew possibly ask? How many more do I know the answer to? Does he already know it's me and he just feels like stretching this out? Are people from the real facility on their way to take me down as he keeps me distracted?

Doing my best not to keep checking behind my back or seem unsuitably nervous, I talk about Otto ad nauseam. Finally Andrew clicks his pen again and sets it down.

"All right, that's all I have to ask. We'll weigh your interview with the other applicants' and call you back within the week. Thanks for coming out here." Getting to his feet, he extends a hand.

"Thanks for your time." I stand as well and shake.

"No problem." He walks me to the door, and I get back to the safety of the car with no eyes on me. Of course, there could always be a bomb planted, or some tampering with the exhaust system to fill the vehicle with carbon monoxide, or—

O-or any number of things. But I have to drive away. It would be too strange to get in my car and then just sit in the parking lot for an hour. Otto would have no reason to do that. And I will not do anything Otto wouldn't while others are watching.

Taking a deep breath, I check the mirrors, and back out, hoping I'm not about to be killed.

* * *

A/N: Just wanted to mention that my free time has been drastically reduced, so I'm sorry if I don't get the chapters out quite so fast.


	27. First Day

My car does not explode as I creep towards the main road. No one follows me out of the parking lot. My forehead does not tighten from carbon monoxide poisoning.

At the first intersection, another car crosses in front of me. Red pickup, driver too busy talking on her phone to look up. Probably not going out of her way to capture me.

As the asphalt continues to pass beneath me, I'm able to calm down a bit. I'm pretty far away now. If they wanted to kill me, they would do it before I got far, before the possible witnesses started stacking up. I'll have to keep an eye out once I'm back in my part of town, but right now, I'll just drive. Keep breathing, and drive.

* * *

Nothing blows up when I open the garage door, nor when I park inside. Pushing the button to shut myself back into darkness, I try to unlock the door in the dark. My key doesn't fit. I flip it around, and still it doesn't do what it's supposed to.

I'm already opening the garage door again before I remember the locks are supposed to have been changed. Sighing, I stop and shut the creaking door as I shuffle through my pocket for my new keys. Perfect fit.

Turning off the safety alarm, I step inside and flick the lights on. Still nothing exploding. Still nothing flying towards me. Still nothing.

I think I made it. I certainly won't completely let my guard down, but I'll at least try to get it below paranoia levels. Maybe a nice, long bath will help.

After one last check, I peel off the mask and get the water started. Eyeing the limp remains of Otto's face, I wonder whether he'll get the job.

* * *

He does. I don't know if Estonia hacked me up to the top of the hiring list, the interview was great, or I'm being invited back to be captured, but Andrew calls me, and before long I'm driving to the real address. Briefly I wonder if this is the same route England took right before he was captured, but thankfully the traffic is enough to absorb my attention.

This building looks no more threatening than the one that housed my interview. A plain office-type brick structure, five or six floors high. I eye the ground but can't exactly see any more storeys down there. I wonder if they'll start me out upstairs. Or maybe there isn't even a below-ground compartment in this one; the windows are all concentrated on the side that faces the road. Some little cells could easily fit towards the back. Is Italy in one of those? Prussia? England? Will I see any of them today? Hear any of them? Well, there's only one way to find out.

Shutting the car door and locking it, I try to ignore the jingle of my keys as my hand shakes. Otto is just nervous about his first day on the job. That's nothing suspicious as long as I keep it under control.

I stride calmly into the building, inform the secretary I have a training session with Andrew, and wait. Eventually Andrew, with the same out-of-place warm smile, arrives and shakes my hand in greeting.

"Congratulations on getting the job," he says, letting go. "I'll give you a little orientation, and then we'll take you through a few training courses—safety, biohazard cleanup, that kind of thing. Sound good?"

I nod, opening my mouth, but he responds, "Great!" before I can voice my agreement, and then we're off.

* * *

The first day of "work" is agreeably dull. While Andrew leading me through halls and talking at me keeps me on edge, by the time I'm halfway through safety instruction, I've calmed down to the point of drooping eyelids. Cursing my continuous nightmares, I do my best to pay attention to the slide show, which is so free of formatting and style I could have put it together myself. The actual content isn't much more entrapping. Wash your hands. Wear gloves. Wash your hands. Don't touch needles. Wash your hands. Put each kind of waste in the appropriate bin. Wash your hands. I realize Otto doesn't have a university degree, but does he really need to be told this?

I manage to get through the basic training, and, after one last meet-up with Andrew, I'm set free. Walking back to the car with a little more ease than yesterday, I head out, but at this hour there's enough traffic to give me time to think.

I'm really starting to believe I've successfully infiltrated the facility. They've had plenty of time to trap me—within what must be the torture building, no less—but it hasn't happened. I do have to wonder when I'll be allowed a glimpse into the real nature of this place. Are they going to threaten or blackmail me so I can't leave if I don't agree? Will they ever even let me into a situation where I could overhear screaming? Will Andrew just explain away anything suspicious with that friendly smile of his? How long will it be before I can find everyone and get them out?

And how much longer is it going to take me to get home? I'm starting to think the entire city just got off work, and nobody's taking Christmas week off. I guess I'm not, either. I'll probably be working Christmas Day and St. Stephen's Day. It's not like I have anything better to do. Italy certainly won't be coming over. Japan's busy trying to quietly shut down the facility in his part of the world. I haven't gotten any threatening party invitations from America. Everyone's too caught up in this—and we should be. Who needs a day off when there's there's so little to celebrate?

Well, maybe that's being a little too hard on the situation. They've gotten me out. We've figured out where at least Italy is, and I've been accepted into the faculty there. Still, it's too soon to be celebrating. I'll keep at this, and, once everyone else is free and the organization is brought to justice, then we can take a little time off and be happy.

Until then.


End file.
